Waiting for C in the Sirific parking lot tonight. Its one of those ethereal nights—foggy, misting, and warm. Common in late spring or early autumn, but not so much during the summer. Its the sort of weather which makes you feel like you’re out on the West coast. Or an extra in a slasher flick, minus the music.
I’m listening to the Ceeb (of course). A scathing exposé on everything that’s wrong with the Toronto Police Department. Its recently finished raining, and I roll down my window to enjoy the damp air.
I roll down my window, and through the dense fog and dark, the soulful strains of a bagpipe are ushered into the car.
Forget about the kind of weather to make you feel like you’re out on the West coast. This is the kind of night to make you feel like you’re across the ocean.
C says he’s out many evenings. In some back corner of the parking lot, although it sounds further away than that.