1661 c/o Dave Shaw

Oliver Cromwell's Head

Oliver Cromwell's Head lights a cigarette and stares out across the Montreal skyline. It's nearing 0400h and he is still waiting for a call.

He can see Parc Jean-Drapeau in the distance and is reminded of the music festival he and Elizabeth had attended there in the summer of 1658.

Do you think Pavement will ever get back together?

The spike penetrating the top of Oliver Cromwell's Head is jagged and inconvenient, but he has learned to live with it.

No use in complaining, Elizabeth always reminded him.

These things just happen to some people.

The phone rings and Oliver Cromwell's Head allows it to ring three times before he answers it.

I'm not coming over; It's late, I have work in the morning.

Well, whatever.


Oliver Cromwell's Head instantly feels guilty for the small sting of satisfaction he feels in cancelling plans. Elizabeth deserves better than that.

But what could she expect?

Oliver Cromwell's Head leans over the edge of the window to get a view of the street below.

Drunk people getting in and out of taxis. The dregs of the night.

Oliver Cromwell's Head is sick of waiting. Fuck this.