Last night, I had every intention of going out on the town, like I used to so often in my youth. I painted my face, ran a brush through my hair, and struggled into pricey new mustard-yellow tights. Dylan and I took a cab uptown in -20C weather, and enjoyed a couple of delightful cocktails in my favorite hole-in-the-wall. There is a strange sense of camaraderie when you leave your house in this weather, like an unspoken respect for all other patrons that braved the elements to sip on a sidecar beside you on a toasty bar stool. We left to move on to the next place, but my heart just wasn't into it. Instead, Dylan foraged on, while I jumped in the next available cab and headed back home. I poured myself a fragrant bath, and whispered every word along to
'Smooth Operator'. I've never been too sure of what Sade meant when she mentioned a 'diamond life', but most of my life has been spent in pursuit of whatever it may be. While drying off, I caught the beginning of SNL, wherein Jamie Foxx introduced himself as 'Jamie Fiz-oxx', and launched into a routine about how 'black people are the new white people'. As I slipped into vanilla-scented sheets, I reminded myself that nobody really wants to deal with my bizarre social skills, or see my face in public, anymore anyway.
~sarah p.
