Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
It doesn’t have to be in bed. It can be on a sofa, a chair, or the floor. We don’t have to be naked. We can be fully clothed, wrapped in blankets. There doesn’t need to be any R-rated moments. The only thing we need is each other’s company.
Just to have somebody there, somebody in my nook, me in theirs, with an arm around me, or with my arm around them, feeling their faint breath on my neck, or mine in their hair.
But, there’s nobody here. There’s nobody to cuddle with.
So, I guess it’s back to my pillow.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as it sounds, because if it was, we wouldn’t be taking planes, trains, and automobiles to get from point A to point B.
And, that makes me a little sad because there are a lot of places that I want to go and can’t because I can’t be at two places at once (or even another place better than the one I’m already at).
Whenever I hear, “You should’ve been there! It was so much fun!” I want to grab a pillow to cry and/or yell into.
It’s not like I don’t want to be there, it’s that I can’t; usually it's due to time, money, or both.
Lucky for me, there are some people who allow me to take part in these events in absentia. Scientists may not have perfected teletransporting, but there are plenty of cell phones with cameras that make you feel like you’re there, even when you’re not.
They’re on the phone, telling you what’s going on, and they take a few photos so you can see who’s there. To make myself a part of the festivities, I take a few photos and send them as attachments.
True, it’s not the same thing. I’d rather be there, listening in and taking part in the conversations, having a drink with friends, and remembering that if I stand up straight and clench all my muscles, it’s similar to isometrics (and people will compliment you on how thin you look).
Instead, I’m sitting at home, watching The Departed on my 32-inch TV, and running a pumice stone across the soles of my feet after soaking them in a tub of hot water.
But, it could be worse. I could have a friend that wouldn't pick up the phone, talk to me, and send photos to my inbox so I can enjoy the festivities. I may not be there in person, but I'm there in spirit.
And, by the way, where the hell was my invite?
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
They shoot squirrels, don't they?
Only this time, these others aren’t people, they’re squirrels.
The landscaping in the front of my place is simple and understated. There’s a patch of grass, some trees, and flowers that are planted throughout the season (tulips in spring, perennials in summer). The backyard has a large patio, trimmed in greenery, a grassy, ramp-like slope towards the fruit trees and the vegetables along the property line.
Even though I’m not a gardener - in any sense of the word - I like to keep things lush and living (not to mention pretty). Plants are watered, grass is mowed, weeds are pulled.
But, now, the squirrels are getting acquianted with my bush.
They’ve been eating the blooms off the fruit trees (which won’t bear any fruit, now), chewing on the leaves of the collard greens, munching on the leaves of the dalias, and eating the flowers off the impatiens (not to mention digging them up).
Fuck. I don't care if the winter was shorter (and milder) than years past, leaving them with a food supply shortage, hence their reliance on my green thumb. They should've hoarded more food to preprare them for environmental catastrophes.
Christ, it's driving me nutty.
But, I'm not the only one, because my neighbour has the same problem. When I ask her about them, she tells me she tries everything, but they’re resilient rodents.
“The only thing I haven’t tried is getting a shotgun,” she says, in a slight twang.
“I don’t know if I’d go to that extreme,” I say. “Last thing I want is to play target practice in my backyard.” That, and I’d have to clean up the mess of splattered squirrel brains all over my tomatoes.
So, I do what every passive-aggressive Canadian does: whines.
After the trial-and-error attempts, online research, shopping excursions, etc., nothing has helped. As much as I want to keep things the way I want them to be, I may have to admit defeat. Those fucking squirrels are winning this war, but I won't back down, even if I don't have anything green left.
Maybe the gun doesn't sound like such a bad idea, after all.
Note: Does anyone get the reference of the post's title?
Monday, June 25, 2007
Luckily, I have the opportunity to catch some rays where I live since the sun hits my place from dusk ‘til dawn. There is never a bad time to lie out in the sun and it can be done for hours at a time.
Since I don’t have a $2,500 Brown Jordan chaise to lie in, I use one of the plastic-wrapped loungers that have been around for the latter part of two decades. They’re not the most attractive objects, but for the price, who the fuck cares.
After the sunscreen is applied, I recline in the lounger and read my magazine. My onion-skin shorts are pulled down, just enough to save myself from being charged by the morality police on a crime of indecent exposure. For the next while, beads of perspiration begin to form on my chest, stomach, back, and rolling down to the waistband of my shorts.
But, there’s a problem: I have to get up.
Even though I am very limber, I’m as stiff as an oak tree after growing numb from the neck down. The plastic on the lounger stretches, making your ass sink into a hole, of sorts. My attempts result in leaning my back forward, clenching my stomach muscles, separating my thighs to the sides, and lifting my legs up in the air, thereby flashing the people who are walking by on the sidewalk.
Oh, and did I forget to mention I'm facing a busy street?
Hopefully, they didn’t see the peep show, ‘cause it’s not supposed to be free.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Three things you'd change about your looks
Unfortunately, some questions can elicit a two-word answer, so I retort to asking something stupid to see if our talks can last longer than a few minutes.
When my friend S and I are sitting at a coffee shop, I bring up a topic that always elicits an answer from every person I’ve asked:
“If you could change any three things about your looks, what would they be and why?” I ask, blowing cool air onto the hot coffee that’s leaving behind a smoky cloud on the top of the cup.
After a short moment, S looks up at me. “Everything,” she says.
“That’s not fair. You can’t change everything.” I open my eyes wide and tilt my head to the side.
She goes back, thinks about it, and tells me her three things. “What about you? What are your three things?” She picks up her cup and brings it to her mouth.
When it comes to my physicality, I choose three things that aren’t available on the shelf, or under a surgeon’s scalpel.
“I’d want to be taller, I wouldn’t want to have any body hair - except my eyebrows and eyelashes - because I hate shaving and I find body hair useless…” and I leave the third one hanging like a bungee jumper, swinging from the rope, back and forth, until someone unlatches him/her from the harness.
She looks at me, intently, waiting for the third.
“I’m not too sure what my third one would be. I’m sure there are several things I wouldn’t mind changing, but it’s a tough decision.” It becomes the scene in Sophie’s Choice, where the heroine has to pick between her two children, and I don’t want to be the little girl she offers up to the Nazis.
She wants an answer, judging by her facial expression.
“I dunno. Maybe I wouldn’t want to go bald.” Technically, that doesn't count, but I hope S doesn't notice. She doesn’t seem too happy with the answer. She probably expected some flaw to be repaired.
Lord knows there are people who have spent money for some of the features I already have (and I think they should receive a refund).
There’s a reason why I look the way I do, and no one else looks like me; I wouldn't want that burden imposed on anyone else. I'm not a perfect physical specimen, but I could look a hell of a lot worse than I already do.
But, she lets it go, and we continue sipping on our hot drinks.
At least this conversation lasted more than two words.
Question: What are your three things (if you want to change anything)?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The most boring person in the room
All of that is thrown out the window when I talk to A, B, and C (all their real initials) - three people who have lead (and still lead) very interesting lives. I have nothing in my life to compare it to. There’s no point in entering a contest that you know you’re going to lose.
Quite often, I have something vaguely interesting to say about my life; what I did and what I’m going to do. It makes people lean in and twist their necks in my direction. Around A, B, and C, all of my quirks and stories go on holiday. I sit, listen, and mouth the occasional stream of words to form a semi-coherent sentence. My gaping mouth isn't very attractive, either.
It's like I'm like a WASP without a stinger.
They're not the only ones that leave me with a loss for words. It happens more often than not. Where is the "online" Steven? Does he even exist in the real world, or is he some fake, digital entity?
So, maybe I'm not interesting. I am the most boring person in the room... unless I tell people I know other more fascinating people to make myself sound more interesting by association.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
And, her insticts are correct.
"Uncle, what are you doing?" asks my niece, sitting in her stroller, as I turn my head away and blow my nose.
"Uncle is blowing his nose. He has snot in his nose."
"Not?" she asks.
"S-not," I repeat. I turn towards her. "Say it with Uncle: sss-not."
"S-not." She puts an emphasis on the s.
"Very good." I smile.
As an added bonus, I continue: "Uncle also has boogers."
"Bluebayries," she says. "Uncle has bluebayries in his nose." Being a sharp child, she forms an immediate association between the two terms.
"No, not blueberries," I laugh. "Boogers. Uncle has boogers in his nose."
"Boogers," she replies.
"One more time," I say.
"Boogers." Her lips form a small circle.
We get ready to go on our stroll, and I couldn't help but wonder that my sister is right in wanting my niece nowhere near me when I talk to her. I'm a horrible influence, and I'm going to hell when my sister kills me for teaching her daughter naughty words.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Make me feel good
“Make me feel good,” she says as she pulls at her clothes and rolls herself on him. “Make me feel good.”
Thankfully, it doesn’t take a tragedy to make you feel wanted, but when you are, it makes you feel good.
Not too long ago, someone wrote me in an e-mail that they thought about me on the weekend. Of course, I wondered what exactly they were thinking about because I elicit so many reactions from every person I associate myself with.
After talking with them on the phone, they went into more detail. The details were good, if PG-13, due to the fact I was in a public place and couldn’t ask for specifics – the little old lady sitting beside me probably wouldn’t want to have this conversation as her final memory on earth.
That’s all it took. One e-mail and one phone call. Someone out there thinks of me in a way that is more than of a self-effacing clown. And it made me feel good.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Getting dirty while getting clean
Since my Ecuadorian cleaning lady, Consuela, is visiting her family back in her home country of Scarborough, Ontario, the cleaning duties are regulated to me.
For the next 30 minutes, I resemble Melanie Griffith in the Working Girl scene where she’s frantically vacuuming Sigourney Weaver’s apartment in her panties because she’s returning from her “vacation” after breaking her leg on the slopes.
The only difference is I’m not wearing panties… or anything else.
Why should I get my clothes dirty while getting my place clean?
Everything is vacuumed, the toilet, sink and polished nickel fixtures are scrubbed, I pour some fresh-smelling cleaning agent in the toilet scrubber’s holder, the mirrors are Windexed, the cups washed, the flowers arranged, the pillows plumped, and the air is sprayed with some nondescript air freshener.
What was styled is now fluffed. The only thing that’s missing is the photographic crew from Metropolitan Home.
As I pass by the living room, the phone rings. It’s her.
“Hi.” She sounds tired.
“Hey, so what’s up?” I say excitedly because she’s about to come over after a few months of non-communication.
“I just got off of work.”
I know what she’s going to say next, I think.
“And, I was wondering is we could save this for another day…”
And, I was right.
“Well, I just got everything prepped for your visit. The place is clean and I had something ready for us to eat.”
“I’m sorry.” She sighs.
“But, if you’d like, I can come over to your place and bring dessert!” I’m hoping for an answer in the affirmative.
“My place is such a mess.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. That’s no excuse. “We can sit in the family room.”
“I just don’t want you to see the place like this.”
And, I don’t.
Those who have known me for a while know I am meticulous in everything I do. When it comes to aesthetics, nothing passes my critical eye. But, people think that since I live my life in a detail-oriented way, I expect everyone to follow suit. They’re mistaken. I don’t care what people do with their lives, but there is no exception for my life to be disorganized.
“Oh well, another time, I guess…” I say, disappointed we won’t be seeing each other, catching up on the days of our lives.
But at least the place looks spotless, even though I’m naked and sweaty, sitting on the floor of my living room.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Included in that group are scent cells. They're the reason why older people put on more perfume/cologne than needed; they can’t smell it on them, so they overcompensate.
But, they’re not the only ones: scentism doesn’t discriminate against age, gender, race, weight, appearance, etc.
To hell with industrial manufacturers, these people are air polluters of the worst kind. It’s bad enough I have allergies, but these people make my eyes water, nose run, and throat sore without the need to have dust, mold, and mildew in the air. They're repellant, obnoxious, and irritating without saying a single word. You know they’re coming even before they enter the room.
And what’s worse is they use scents that were popular in the ‘80s. Men bathe themselves in Drakkar, Eternity, and Polo, while women shower themselves with Joy, Opium, and Obsession.
Are they trying to recapture your youth by spraying yourself with the memories of another decade? Jesus, Mary, Fuck, no.
It’s times like those where I wish my body stopped regenerating my scent cells so I wouldn’t have to smell other people around me.
Christ, you people stink.
Note: And on that high note, have a great weekend, y'all.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
2, 3, 4, 5
“Oh my God! I look so stooopid!” I say, looking at my reflection. “Is that really me?”
My hands slide down my stomach, pressing every few inches.
“Two... three... four… five? That’s not possible.” I count again. And again. After the third count, I laugh at the preposterousness of the fact. Even in cases of vanity, I still come up with an odd number.
“It’s like they put the right stomach on the wrong person.”
For the better part of two decades, I was the fat one, the one who made people laugh with self-effacing jokes. Now, when looking in the mirror, the fat one is gone, replaced with a thinner imposter. The person on the outside doesn't match the one on the inside. Where's the double chin, man boobs, five stomach rolls, and thighs that made sparks when I walked? They're not there. It's a jarring image to me. And, I don't like it.
After the shower and for the rest of the night, I unconsciously pass the time pressing the palm of my hand against my stomach to make sure the reflection wasn’t playing tricks on me. It's not.
Note: This post is dedicated to all those who called me fat/out of shape... and, by the way, it's more ripped, now. Ew.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Pomegranates contain a generous amount of antioxidants, but since they’re a little messy to eat (and difficult to find, depending on the time of year), there’s Pom – a juice available on the shelves of most supermarkets.
The juice itself has a rich and complex flavour. It resembles a mixture of various fruits with an earthiness found in tannic wines. Pom is not for everyone.
But, I’ve found a way to make it more tolerable for those with picky palates…
Being a fan of mixed drinks (or any drinks, for that matter), I’ve discovered that a little bit of vodka can help ease the edge of the Pom juice. Although my preferred mixture is that of one part liquor to three parts booze, it's best to use one part liquor to three parts juice.
And, you don't have to use a shaker (too much work) or ice (that dilutes the alcohol). Just throw both of them in a tumbler and enjoy.
What's best about this mixture is the more you drink, the healthier it is. Whether or not the vodka counteracts the effects of pomegranate juice, I don't know. But, I can say that my body’s cells are buzzed.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
So why do I find myself attracted to these people if their bad moods outweigh their good ones – if they have good ones.
The reason – at least for me – is they intrigue me to the point that I want to find out what makes them tick. Being someone who has to know the answer to everything, I find that these people are like enigmas that need to be solved.
There is someone who I used to talk to who was so evasive in answering questions, they practically made me transparent in comparison; if you didn’t know what was going on in their minds, you sure as fuck knew what was going on in mine. If I wanted to know something, I was told to ask. E-mails were like a Q&A, pointed and direct, almost to the point of hostility. It was as if I was taking time out of their day to get to know them, to build a friendship.
Without sounding like a 2-year-old, why? Why are they moody and pissy when you ask them questions? Why are they dickin’ bitches when you ask them why they’re moody and pissy when you ask them questions?
It could be they’re temperamental.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Don't you run away from me
But, when I see someone I know and they see me, we wave to each other and end up talking for a few minutes before we go on our separate ways. Conversely, when I see someone I know and they pretend they don’t see me, the scene usually plays out like this…
“Hey!” I stick my arm up in the air. “Hey!” I wave my arm. No reaction from them. My warms swing side to side. “HEY!” Still nothing. Instead of feeling embarrassed, I begin to get a little irritated and I walk closer to them. They see me and turn around.
“Don’t you turn away from me. Don’t think I can’t see you!” I say as I walk through the crowd. “Where do you think you’re going?” My voice gets a little louder. “Don’t you think I know you saw me?” They walk away and start to trot down the street. “Bitch, where do you think you’re running off to?” I point in their direction. “Hey! I know where you live!” I say out loud.
But, this hasn’t happened to me… this week. My friends know me better than that. They also know that if they try to make a run for it, I will catch up to them and then I’ll make a scene.
Note: This is a slight exaggeration, just so you know...
Friday, June 08, 2007
But, I’ve been noticing an irregularity with the location of the lint. Specifically, it’s gone to the crack of my ass.
Seriously, what is up with ass lint?
Before I go to bed, I take a shower. While removing my clothing (and folding it on the counter), I do the usual checks: pimples, ingrown hairs, etc. Occasionally, I run my fingers across my ass because of a proverbial itch that needs scratching. Lo and behold, there are little pieces of fluff in and around my crack.
I use soap and a sponge to scrub myself clean. Afterwards, I use a towel and vigorously rub myself dry, making sure I get in and around every nook and cranny.
And, ass lint still shows up on occasion.
It would make sense if I wore undergarments made of a material that pills, but all of my undies are cotton. And, if I don’t wear undies (which is often, especially on hot days of summer), then it shouldn’t be a problem.
It's such a pain in the, well, ass. But, why does this happen? Can this serious (and silent) affliction be cured?
Personally, I think it comes from wedgies that aren't picked. The fabric tucks away in a place where it shouldn't, creates friction with the skin, and Voilà! ass lint.
Which, of course, gives me a reason to subconsciously scratch my ass at whim.
Note: And, with that final thought, I wish you a great weekend.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Doctor, your 6 o'clock appointment is here
Sometimes, it’s much more difficult, not because one person is hogging the conversation, but because the other person isn’t saying a thing (they’re uncomfortable and/or shy, or conversely, stubborn and/or evasive).
You'd think it would be easy to get inside their head to see what’s going on, but it can be challenging. It’s like a carjacking, where you're jimmying the lock, but don’t realize there’s a silent alarm sending a warning to the police.
And, I hate that awkward (and eerie) moment of silence.
What ends up happening is that I turn into an armchair psychologist and start asking a series of questions to get something out of them: Family life? Siblings? School? Job? Where they live? Anything to get a response.
But, I never ask the "But, how does that make you feel?" sort of question. I'm not Barbra Streisand, they're not Nick Nolte, and this isn't the re-enactment of the rape scene in The Prince of Tides.
It's such a pain in the ass, and I don’t want to give the impression that I’m analyzing them; I'm just trying to figure out why they aren't talking.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
I know it’s not my computer because it works just fine, and it’s not because of the phone jack because I still use it for my phone. It has to be the modem.
After waiting almost 30 minutes on hold, I get transferred to DSL’s customer service. I give them my phone number and tell them about the problem.
“Well, I already unplugged and plugged all of my cables, tried a new set of cables, removed the splitter, reset my modem, turned off the computer and turned it back on.”
Hearing the clicking of a keyboard on the other side of the line, I know he’s doing something. What, I don’t know. We go back and forth in a series of questions and answers. He gives me a set of instructions to follow and I act accordingly.
I end up uninstalling, reinstalling, deprogramming, reprogramming, unplugging, plugging, resetting, unattaching, reattaching, turning off and turning on the computer, going through DOS to reset the program, and muffling the occasional curse word while on my hands and knees underneath the desk with the phone’s handset cradled between my neck and head.
It all adds up to nothing.
As a final step, he tells me to unplug all the phones I have and see whether it makes a difference.
“But, how will I call you if the phones are unplugged?” I ask just before I unplug the cordless phone and accidentally hang up.
It takes me a second to realize what I’ve done.
How will I get a hold of him if I didn’t even ask for his name and extension?! FUCK!
I am so angry, I am about to throw the computer out of the window for dramatic purposes.
“That does it. I give up.” I raise my hands up in the air. “I haven’t had anything to eat all day and I am starving… not to mention cranky as hell. God, I need a drink.”
It’s bad enough the weather is shitty, but I had something in my eye all day, dropped a remote control, spilled a glass of wine, made a mess in the kitchen due to grease splatter, and had issues with my phone’s answering machine that wasn’t answering phone calls.
After taking a break (and letting the alcohol slowly seep into my bloodstream), I go back to the computer. It needs to be unplugged before I haul it to another room with a phone jack.
As a larf, I decide to log online just one last time.
After clicking on the icon, I wait for the message to say whether or not my password has been accepted… and it works. The fucking thing works, and I didn’t have to a thing. More than two hours on the phone with customer service was for naught. Fuck.
Was all that pain and suffering for nothing? Or was it a test to see how angry I can get?
Motherfucking piece of digital shit.
Give me a cave and a rock to bash every piece of electrical equipment I own. That will make me feel so much better.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Happy Single's Day!
Now, I’m not married, and/or have any kids (that I know of). So, where does that leave me in the gift giving/sharing? It doesn’t.
So, in order to remedy the situation, I suggest creating Happy Single's Day. A single’s week is selfish, and a single’s year would just be too much. One day would be enough to celebrate the qualities of the singletons in the world.
Even if it’s not done for personal reasons, can you imagine the business and marketing opportunities? Cards, clothes, shopping discounts, travel packages… parades. Ok, maybe not a parade, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea (if that fat bastard, Santa, can have one, why can’t we?).
The greatest part of it is you don’t have to spend a cent because other people would (hopefully) buy whatever you want for you.
But, maybe this sounds a little ego-driven. It shouldn’t be all about us. Things would change… when we get married and have kids.
Note: Please excuse my erratic posting schedule; my server has been on the fritz.
Friday, June 01, 2007
NY See: Hard to say goodbye
Since I’m checking out at noon, I still have to hit the Upper West Side – which includes the Time Warner Centre, Lincoln Centre, and Broadway North – and Central Park.
The next several hours are spent with me running around, taking a series of photos, and looking at my watch every few seconds to make sure I’m not late getting back to the hotel. Since I’m meeting Billy and Chris for lunch in Union Square, the last thing I want is to shell out an extra fee on top of the (somewhat) exorbitant amount I already paid for the room.
When I get back to the hotel, I pack my carryall and leave it in storage (for an extra $2), and walk down to Union Square.
Strolling down Broadway, the storefronts gradually change from jewellery and tourist shops hawking “I ♥ NY” paraphernalia to mid-to-high end stores. The design of many of the buildings is breathtaking for someone who appreciates architecture. Every so often, I pull out my camera to take the occasional shot.
Union Square is alive with a farmers market and people out enjoying their lunch on a sunny day. As I wait outside Diesel for Chris, I get a call from inside the store, saying he’s buying a pair of jeans to replace one he wasn’t too happy with. That’s strange, I think, I’ve been outside the store for the past 15 minutes and I didn’t see him go inside.
I meet him inside, he gets his pants, and we talk to two very cute SAs (who claim they don’t hear an accent – I instantly fall in love with them) before we leave.
Once we’re done, we go looking for Billy in the square. He calls me on my phone, asking where we are. He’s exiting the subway, but he can’t find us. We meet up at the intersection where the market begins and head off to lunch.
Both of them cater to my whim of having falafel since I haven’t experienced what it means to eat one. In a hole-in-the-wall place off on 17th Street, we get our lunch. Chris declines my offer of paying for his as a long-delayed birthday “present” while Billy chooses a falafel-less sandwich.
We find a spot on the bench under some trees. In-between talks about Smallville (it’s still on?) and Footballer’s Wives (there’s going to be a shocking death in season four), I look out into space and don’t say much. I’m not sure whether or not Billy and Chris noticed because they were entertained by the “performance” of one particular person who was unwontedly kissed.
To me, being in the park, right now, epitomizes living in the moment. I don’t even realize the sauce is sliding through my fingers and running down my hand and arm because my mind is trying to remember the colours of the trees, the wind breezing through my hair, and the crunch of fine gravel being walked over by a series of feet.
Chris leaves first since he has to go to work. We say our goodbyes and I walk with Billy to the subway. I ask him how to get to Washington Square from here and remind him that I have a terrible sense of direction. He gives me foolproof directions (walk until Fifth Avenue, turn left and keep walking until I hit the arch), and we say our goodbyes. I thank him for coming all the way down to have lunch.
On my way down to Fourth Street, I take a leisurely pace down Fifth Avenue until I reach my destination. When I get to the park, I sit cross-legged under a tree and pull out a magazine from my mitchel. Instead of reading, I take in the sights and sounds of the environment. There are people catching some rays and eating ice cream, and a jazz/swing band is playing music in the near distance. I see, breathe, listen, and touch as much as I can for future reference.
With the magazine on my lap, I smile to myself.
From the time I arrived, I quickly got caught in the rain, went to MOMA (after having Billy save my ass by letting me leave my carryall at his work), went to Therapy, met some great people and had to say goodbye to them, watched The Drowsy Chaperone, saw the sights (which included Andy Roddick and the faux Paris Hilton), and took over 350 pictures (some of which are usable).
But, it’s time to go, and I’m reluctant to leave.
Going up Broadway, I enter a few stores (ABC Carpet and Home, being one that I’ve wanted to go to for years) and treat myself to a decent dinner and dessert. The empty fork is held in my hand for too long, wanting to pick at the food that's no longer on my plate.
I wish I could stay longer. If I had the chance, I would. If I had a job offer, I’d be here tomorrow. But, I am only a visitor, not a resident.
By the time my ride takes me further away from the city, the illuminated skyline grows smaller with every kilometre driven in the opposite direction.
Craning my neck as far as it can go, I look at the city as it slowly fades from view. I have to turn around. I can’t see the city anymore, not because I’m supposed to, but because I have to.