I looked at the clock, reluctantly: 10:25 a.m.
“I should get changed,” she said in a low whisper.
“Yeah, I guess. Yeah. Look, wear what you want — I mean, take what you need,” nodding to the bedroom. “I’d rather you be comfortable.”
She sniffed quietly, staring into my eyes, smiling.
“Thanks.”
Experience.
+ + +
WE FOUND OURSELVES cruising in a taxi; a sombre replay of the previous day. I could barely recall giving the driver the address: Cherry Street, just south of Mill. I could only remember asking him to stay off his cellphone and keep the two-way radio silent. She was in my Toronto sweatshirt and we were both wearing sunglasses. In a strange, unheralded way we were celebrities: it was only now that I was able — and barely so — to comprehend the gravity of what we had experienced
