Summer ’18

The shuttered footage begins to unwind, whirring quietly in the middle of the night. He chased me down King Street, as though closing that distance would take back every 3 a.m. conversation when I had found myself hailing an Uber back to Etobicoke.

The streetlights blurred, and as he reached for my waist I turned around for the last time. There we were, in a crowd full of pretty girls and Bay Street suits — nights I had lived without but those days, haunted my every morning after. And he echoed the words I have heard a hundred times before, as though I belonged in his arms forever.

But as I stood there in radio silence, he realized we had died in the war. And that was our last night – his hand in mine, my once-upon-a-Valentine.

 

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