Scapegoats for Speeding Cars
Photograph by Chloe Xueqi Tan. "There's not enough nightlife in this city," we say half-past midnight, dodging women in cowboy hats and buckled boots. You hypothesize derisively that there was a show at the Commodore, the Vogue, the Pearl, the Roxy, or all of the above. The golden maple leaves have yet to make way for darker nights. Darker nights have yet to make way for better ones. A mirage of glitter embraces our weekly pub as regulars filter out the doors. A few faces are familiar before the gates lower like it's time to go home. I scramble to seek refuge in the glow of the street corner. We're tucked under the awning and I see the neon lights aren't the the end of the tunnel so much as the Corona Borealis birthmarked on your wrist. Granville Street has never been this alive, and it's still not enough to transcend silence. This is the first time my word count exceeds yours, which makes me more bitter than the windchill. We are standing i...
