Blackout
It was Tim, of course, who made his way downtown through the blackout to drag me from my apartment and away from my dead, dark screen, from my undoable work and unmeetable deadlines, to walk down Yonge Street and catch the strippers on the sidewalk outside the Brass Rail, hocking glow-in-the-dark necklaces—”See for miles!” they cried—to watch the tourists getting lost in the dark, to wonder at the tiny, impossible oases of power, and to find one selling beer, a gay bar on Church, where we finally settled down and waited for the city to get started again.
✉
