He turns on the television, flicks through some options, a way to feel useful while too tired to do anything more. On screen, a pornographic backdrop behind the menu, a naked woman sitting on wrought iron fleur-di-lis, shot from below, the metal pressing into her soft, photoshop-perfect skin. She is anonymous, mostly a silhouette of legs and shaved genitals, though it can be seen that she has a ring piercing in a sensitive place. I mentally wince, thinking of how easy it would be to get caught on things, but grin, looking at him, silently expecting an explanation, as that’s what such situations generally require. “It’s not mine, if you’ll believe it,” he replies to my amused face, “I would have fixed the aspect ratio.”

It’s amazing the moments that feel like home. Because yes, I would have too.


My asymmetrical purple fedora has vanished, lost somehow in the earliest hours of Boxing Day, most probably to the Metrotown parking lot. It was a fine hat, resilient, much loved, and my utter favourite, the best I’ve ever had. Already I miss it, along with the lovely feather fascinator attached to it that Sugar made me for my birthday. A moment of silence, please.

Also mysteriously gone this year: The Scarf of True Love.