Living the life…

My boyfriend and I moved into a flat on 4th Avenue, almost exactly a year after his car was stolen there. This may seem a strange choice, but the area was so vibrant and well-suited to our needs that it seemed a shame to hold a grudge.

It was close to varsity, a ten minute drive. This was a blessing considering I was used to a two hour commute and he was used to a 45 minute drive.

We moved into our flat after dating for two years, and felt as though we were living in a movie. We lived above a Chinese restaurant and an Indian restaurant. There was a patisserie and bakery on the corner, and a coffee shop across the road. We’d score dope from the street vendors and knew our newspaper guy. We lived just off the main road, and we would walk up it together, stopping in at the many second-hand bookshops and trying to decide which of the many restaurants we would next eat at.

Finally, we would arrive at our local cafe, where the Muslim dude behind the counter would let us take whatever we needed and pay him back next time because he knew us. The older gentleman who owned the gift store would always wink at me and say “Spank you very much”, flirting because he knew it was safe. The waiter in the Indian restaurant always chatted with us and we complained to each other about the American asshole who was new to the block of flats. The owner of the Chinese restaurant always smiled and called me “sushi lover” because my Dad took me out there quite often.

It was idyllic, and we never regretted anything.

It was perfect, and that’s why we still live there…revelling in our freedom and our independence.

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