Torontonian bastards.
Thieving things, all the time. Quebec's economy, the Mr. Pykes of the world, apparently all the security-related jobs, and now - a sugar-spun fingered man with a laugh like he actually understands the joke.
In whichever language.
It took me a good half hour to catch the falter in his french, and by then I'd mispronounced nearly every word in my meagre repertoire at least once.
With that greater-than-thou shell of intelligence that I stupidly find far too attractive, and yet the moment he realized that everyone was capable of polysyllabic communication, he dropped it. Instantly. With a grin from floppy ear to floppy ear.
The sort of sense of humour that provides baritone cover when a monstre bullshits herself into a corner.
And when we had the "I could never do a man with stubby fingers" conversation?
He unfurled ten miles of hand and looked at his fingers, as though in wonder.
An painter, somehow managing to pay rent, living in Toronto.
Leaving Tuesday.
Torontonian bastards. You've got my first high school crush, my favourite madman, and now this graceful boy with a baritone laugh.
Bastards. You're never getting the bagel, I tell you. Never.