Dripping marigold patterns

I’m hiding behind my killer smile. Pop music blaring, the street feels like it should be drenched with heat. The sun biting the sidewalk with friendly malevolence. Instead the sky is dimming, turning down the switch from impenetrable winter gray to blue-black. Tonight I’m going to a new fetish night after work. As is, I’m going alone, but company would be appreciated. 555 Davie Street, no streetwear. I’m planning on arriving for ten and staying until I can arrange a ride. I might be in the wrong part of the city to act the predatory hitchhiker, but leaving early is about as much fun as walking home at 2 in the morning. I suppose it depends on my dancing.

Yesterday was delicious fun. It was like a piece of fiction heavily clouded with cultural reference. Dropped in on The Aviator with Matthew, Sophie, Lief, and Andrew, then out to dinner at Taffs. We picked up Mike again, dropped off Lief, and wandered through the rain back to Matthews, [poke] where I mercilessly whipped Andrew at chess,[/poke] and many painfully geeky conversations ensued. If it had been warmer, we might have stolen into the hotel swimming pool across the alleyway.