shaking the dust off

When I lived in Vancouver I had a habit of falling in love madly, wildly, secretly. My favourite was to fall in love with boys who were completely inappropriate for me, but who were well worth loving anyway. I think many of them suspected how much I loved them, but if they did, they had the good sense to never mention it.

I had a lot of love in me when I was younger, it was practically spilling out my ears. The reserve has been a bit low for the last year, but I can feel it is slowly replenishing.

One boy I didn't love but who I stood quietly in awe of was Joe, the best friend of one of my roommates at the time (who, incidentally, I did love). Joe might have been worried about being in his late twenties and having no education or direction and a 17 year old girlfriend, but if he did, it didn't show. Joe was gentle, and quick-witted, and lanky, and charismatic. We went walking around downtown Vancouver together once, and at two in the afternoon he suggested that we pop into a bar for a drink. "You know, to shake the dust off." He could really say things like that and not sound stupid or like he was trying to be cool.

I remember after we had a couple of drinks we walked around the lower east side, where every person you pass looks like they are about to die, or like they have recently risen from the dead. We went into some pawn shops. They were large, high-ceilinged, flourescent-lit. Some were packed to the rafters. Some were sparse, with items laid out on round glass-topped tables like a lady's parlour decorated with knick-knacks. I can't remember what he was looking for.