At the very end of this story, a large contingent of my family is running in circles around a parking lot. It’s like a Chinese fire drill with fewer fumes, but you wouldn’t know it from the silliness. I go home with Corinne. It’s almost a two-mile straight line from this street to my apartment, it’s getting dark and we’re babbling. Stopped at a traffic light halfway home, we’re chattering at each other when the driver in front of us shoves open his door, jumps out and dances between the yellow lines on Hamilton Street. Corinne and I point! We gasp! We make noises like our lung function is imperiled! The light turns green. He slides back into his car. We squeal with glee. He turns left onto George Street at the next light but our delight stays with us.
At home before 9:30 on a Friday night, I’m too exhausted to move and it’s too early to sleep. Then suddenly it’s very late. Then it’s possible I woke up happy Saturday morning.