Last night felt like a night with the boys.
This morning I wrote an impossibly long email to Marc, the first of the boys, to tell him about moments from the party that he should have been first-class privvy to, that should be part of our collective "so much has happened among us" repertoire.
This morning it ocurred to me what it was that started that feeling, the one I've been so addicted to, the one that feels like surrogate family, that impossible "I belong" beast that always seems to be slithering the last of its tail into the shadows the moment I finally espy movement.
It began on the drive from Dano and Larry's, taking a turn at precisely the wrong moment into the thick of Toronto rush hour and finding ourselves sitting on University street engrossed in conversation about just about anything, and then realizing that anything encompassed so many wild and true and rare things.
Sitting there amidst flowing wit and experience, I sat there just like evenings with the boys, afraid to share my opinion because it was too small, too febrile.
And then, as usual, I forgot myself and just started talking and the silence in the car was one of intent listening, and the shock that weight was being put on my words in the face of the glorious ones that had already passed.
We talked, and talked, and shared, and compared, and analyzed and laughed and most importantly, mutually admired.
Arriving to a house filled with Dave who'd beat us to it, we sat and talked some more, watched a movie, opened bottles of mead and impressive spiced wine, and fell right back into the conversation, mentioning things that never happen in mundane conversations, from drugs to Penzic to things that always seem to stay inside despite how free we feel with our entourage.
The evening was short until midnight, normal even, nothing spectacular aside from a few friends sitting on oddly-arranged couches and chatting.
But it meant worlds to me.