hitting the nail

I'm out for drinks with an old guy friend of mine. We've been laughing for hours, enjoying a warm night. It's Saturday night on College St, right in the mostly Italian and Portuguese neighbourhood. He notes that up on Bloor people are mostly hammered by 11 PM; down here it's more of a Mediterranean feel, and people are pacing themselves, drinking and chain smoking, but still basically under control. They plan to go all night.

Men strut, their eyes scanning the exposed flesh appreciatively; women who most likely took about four hours to do their makeup and put together their outfits look studiously disinterested.

We ogle the many painted women going by, marvel at how 1980's aerobic wear with stacked heels has become 2007 urban nightlife fashion, talk about our worst kisses and best dates. After multiple vodka sodas (the perfect drink! so refreshing, no hangover!) I finally have to use the facilities.

As I pee in a stall of the tiny, underlit, bronze-painted basement bathroom, there are two women standing by the sink. They are fixing their flawless, abundant makeup and talking loudly about their lovers, current and former. They ignore me in my jeans and v-neck t-shirt; other than my breasts, I lack what must be to them the more obvious female markings: 4-inch heels, eighteen shades of eye shadow artfully applied, hair held in a perfect product-encrusted helmet. (They look incredible, airbrushed, and I imagine that they take bubble baths and sip champagne all day.) They move aside to let me wash my hands, but continue speaking as though I wasn't there. Their conversation has engrossed them and the tone is sincere. This is serious analysis. "He was hot," one says. "Yeah," replies the other. "He was totally like a porn star, but loving, you know?"