So we decide on dinner at Queen Street.
I wear this red dress that I bought second-hand and had been saving for an occasion (I’m a thematic dresser at the best of times). It ties up like a noose around my ribcage, snug beneath my bust. I like this right now, the fact that it accentuates the parts of me that have grown up, that aren’t thirteen anymore. My make-up sweats as I cross the William Jolly and I imagine foundation clumping at my neckline like impasto on a canvas which is dumb, because that’s not what happens.