I stayed up far too late for a school night, enjoying a glass of wine with an old friend. It should have been a hot summer night, but July in Toronto is not acting as July in Toronto should. Perhaps it's a victim of identity theft. It's a pity, for there is nothing more enjoyable than a darkened sky made heavy with heat.
At any rate, a light jacket took care of the problem, and allowed us to speak of all and sundry. Except, not really, because we only spoke of ourselves. We are only 30 after all, like children in that we're only concerned, frustrated, with what we haven't done yet.
We sat and spoke of our hearts, and our salaries, our dreams and our winnings, our opportunities grasped, and mistakes that tore out our heart. We spoke hollowly, like strangers do when the meet on the street, about subjects that deserve more weighted words. Our unspoken excuse for such a contradiction was a history that stretched backwards into Generation X angst, backwards into mistaken bumps in the night, backwards into pubescent drama, backwards to a place I don't like to look at anymore. It's a sorry excuse, but it gave us permission to gloat and brag and spill, and it gave me the chance to show off the small box of composure that was gifted to me by time.
Huh. Who says time isnít on my side?
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