Not a Love Story – Part 1
This year, my Canada Day started out, well, grimly.
Between my best friends both having dates and my ex having moved out about a month before, I suddenly found myself staring down a long, gloriously awful afternoon of whimpering to myself over G&Ts and darkly muttering curses at all the celebrations taking place in view of my sun-drenched deck.
Fortunately, at the last moment I was rescued from drunken morosity and dashed off to watch the fireworks with some new friends, one of whom we shall call “Wolf-Shirt.”
Wolf shirt was cute. He was friendly and had a nice smile and a best friend who, as the night wore on, became more and more invested in the two of us getting to know one another.
I’m talking some stern pseudo-whispering and a physical push in my direction, invested.
I was amused and flattered but didn’t think too much of it until, sitting next to each other at the bar the group had migrated to, we made the exact same weird joke, in unison, no less.
The hamsters running the wheels of my brain all paused for a second and took note.
As the night stretched into the wee hours, our group was whittled down to Wolf shirt, my best friend and her date who wound up joining us, and myself.
I believe it was about 2:30am when Wolf Shirt turned to me and asked “So what are you doing after this?”
“Oh, you know, I’ll probably just go home and…do my taxes?”
“You want to ride bikes?” he asked.
And suddenly – absolute terror of riding bikes in the city be damned – I absolutely did.