Nuit Blanche

Into the Blue, Fujiwara Takahiro (at the Eaton Centre)

I knew I needed to get out of there long before the night started to hurt, but I was still down in the crater that Alex had tried to drag me out of when she said, "This is not the Les Sinclair I know," on Friday.  Crater: her word.  I knew who else was out, I even knew where some of them were.  It would not have been hard to find the others.  I asked for help diciphering my thoughts so late at night but I picked wrong, and inert, a little further inside the crater I sank. 

So I end up on a corner somewhere far across Queen West by myself at 3:30 am.  There were still millions of people out for Nuit Blanche even then, so I wasn't scared, but I was sad and lonely and disappointed and I didn't know what approach to take to get home.  The streetcars were so packed they weren't stopping for anyone else.  Taxis were everywhere, but there were too many people to fight to catch one.  I was standing there fighting the inertia when I felt the strap of my bag tighten sharply across my chest.  I don't know how I knew it was friendly and not some dick trying to make off with my stuff but I'm sure I'm not just being romantic when I say I knew.  I turned around – it was Fahrin and Stu. 

Thank God, Thank God, THANK GOD.

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