hair.
This will be the last winter I spend in Edmonton.
While he waited for a bus that he had most likely missed and anticipated waiting another thirty minutes for the next one.
This will be the last winter I spend in Edmonton.
While he sat on his hands in her parentsâ car, desperate for heat, knowing that neither his hands nor the car would ever be truly warm again for the next six months.
This was his attempt at what his mom called manifestation , a technique he resorted to out of desperation. Edmontonâs cold grip felt inescapable as he watched his friends and peers already buying property or cars or starting their full-time jobs or their masterâs degrees at the University of Alberta. He didnât know what came next for him, but he knew whatever it was, it began with a departure.
He entered Toronto for the first time on the packed airport shuttle. It was a grand but intimidating welcome, the city guarded by billboards, skyscrapers, and glass condos. He couldnât figure out if the city was trying to keep its inhabitants in or keep visitors out or both. Looking through the window, he felt himself disappear into what he sawâthe endless concrete and the traffic.
It was this feeling of forgetting himself, or rather the version of himself that had never fully adapted to Edmonton, and the possibility of creating a new and better version of himself, that cemented his decision to move to Toronto a month later.
Convincing her to move wasnât difficult. She shared his frustration with living in a city where there was only one street, one bar, and one theatre where you would inevitably run into the one person you didnât want to see. She couldnât move right away because of her work contract but promised to join him as soon as she could.
He signed the lease for a decently priced bachelor on Huntley Street with the hope that the large balcony, which was half the size of the unit, would have space for a small swing where she could read and rock, facing the sunset. He furnished the apartment minimally, not just because he knew this place would be temporary.
In his parentsâ home, the furniture and accessories were the real inhabitants, a vase or frame or chair compulsively planted in every corner, as though there was an underlying fear of empty space. He suspected it had to do with his momâs obsession with not appearing poor, every piece declaring their familyâs financial respectability. He felt a sympathetic suffocation for their house and told himself that he would always place importance on function first, that his future homes would be built around needs, his needs, versus appearance. He bought a futon that acted as a couch by day, a bookshelf that was also used as a workstation, and a coffee table where he ate all of his meals. Thesole decorative presence was the sheer silver curtains, which let in just enough daylight and reminded him of her large collection of silver earrings.
Three months later, when she walked into the apartment, now their apartment, for the first time, he watched her face carefully, hoping she would approve of the choices he had made.
I love it.
But?
I really love it. Itâs perfect. But â¦
He laughed.
We canât sleep on a futon. We are adults. We need a bed.
A bed seemed to him a luxurious purchase. As he assisted her with the assembly of the headboard, he tried to ignore the futon behind them, now reassigned to play solely the role of couch. He was convinced the decision was less about adulthood, comfort, and her supposed back pains, and more about a personal grudge she had against the futon. Whenever they watched a movie, she would wriggle around on it for minutes, tackling different poses before settling with a loud sigh. But he was so happy to have her around all the time that he would have been delighted to throw the futon over the balcony if she so desired.
He loved seeing her toothbrush leaning on his, like
This will be the last winter I spend in Edmonton.
While he waited for a bus that he had most likely missed and anticipated waiting another thirty minutes for the next one.
This will be the last winter I spend in Edmonton.
While he sat on his hands in her parentsâ car, desperate for heat, knowing that neither his hands nor the car would ever be truly warm again for the next six months.
This was his attempt at what his mom called manifestation , a technique he resorted to out of desperation. Edmontonâs cold grip felt inescapable as he watched his friends and peers already buying property or cars or starting their full-time jobs or their masterâs degrees at the University of Alberta. He didnât know what came next for him, but he knew whatever it was, it began with a departure.
He entered Toronto for the first time on the packed airport shuttle. It was a grand but intimidating welcome, the city guarded by billboards, skyscrapers, and glass condos. He couldnât figure out if the city was trying to keep its inhabitants in or keep visitors out or both. Looking through the window, he felt himself disappear into what he sawâthe endless concrete and the traffic.
It was this feeling of forgetting himself, or rather the version of himself that had never fully adapted to Edmonton, and the possibility of creating a new and better version of himself, that cemented his decision to move to Toronto a month later.
Convincing her to move wasnât difficult. She shared his frustration with living in a city where there was only one street, one bar, and one theatre where you would inevitably run into the one person you didnât want to see. She couldnât move right away because of her work contract but promised to join him as soon as she could.
He signed the lease for a decently priced bachelor on Huntley Street with the hope that the large balcony, which was half the size of the unit, would have space for a small swing where she could read and rock, facing the sunset. He furnished the apartment minimally, not just because he knew this place would be temporary.
In his parentsâ home, the furniture and accessories were the real inhabitants, a vase or frame or chair compulsively planted in every corner, as though there was an underlying fear of empty space. He suspected it had to do with his momâs obsession with not appearing poor, every piece declaring their familyâs financial respectability. He felt a sympathetic suffocation for their house and told himself that he would always place importance on function first, that his future homes would be built around needs, his needs, versus appearance. He bought a futon that acted as a couch by day, a bookshelf that was also used as a workstation, and a coffee table where he ate all of his meals. Thesole decorative presence was the sheer silver curtains, which let in just enough daylight and reminded him of her large collection of silver earrings.
Three months later, when she walked into the apartment, now their apartment, for the first time, he watched her face carefully, hoping she would approve of the choices he had made.
I love it.
But?
I really love it. Itâs perfect. But â¦
He laughed.
We canât sleep on a futon. We are adults. We need a bed.
A bed seemed to him a luxurious purchase. As he assisted her with the assembly of the headboard, he tried to ignore the futon behind them, now reassigned to play solely the role of couch. He was convinced the decision was less about adulthood, comfort, and her supposed back pains, and more about a personal grudge she had against the futon. Whenever they watched a movie, she would wriggle around on it for minutes, tackling different poses before settling with a loud sigh. But he was so happy to have her around all the time that he would have been delighted to throw the futon over the balcony if she so desired.
He loved seeing her toothbrush leaning on his, like
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