On Saturday I went to Trinity Bellwoods Park to watch Rachelle and some friends play tennis. It was a lovely day and it seemed as if half of the city was scattered about there, all engaged in some form of languor.
Stoned girls in sunglasses sat on benches, sucking lemonade through straws. A hobo with long, elegant grey hair staggered up to me, “Hey Bro, you got a light?” and when I told him that I didn’t, a look of heartbreak coloured his face. “Aww, gee!” he said before wandering off, only to return ten minutes later to pose the question again, having forgotten he had already asked me.
Under the shade of trees couples held onto one another. Rolling cigarettes or staring up at the clouds, they all struck poses of accidental beauty, living moments they would recall in their hearts 40 years in the future.
Directly in front of the gates opening up into the park, a red MG sports car was parked on Queen Street. With the hood down, a guy of about 20 sat alone in the driver’s seat. Pretending nonchalance, he strummed an acoustic guitar as if unaware of the world unfolding around him. He had a mop of intentional hair that begged autumn leaves, and he was clearly everything he had ever wanted to be at that exact moment, waiting to make the first impression that would last a lifetime.