Week 35, 2026: The x factor
The start of the week is slow, mindful. I try a few of my go-to cures for loneliness (reading, telephoning, audiencing at an arts show) but it really wants to be my friend so I give up shaking it off and try to befriend it back. I’m lucky to have the public library, faraway friends who miss me, hope. Thinking about fabrics and garments takes up a large portion of my brainpower, which helps. The ancient Egyptians buried people with bread, beer and linen (the afterlife essentials). I’d be so happy if I turned up to the function (the afterlife) in a 100% linen dress and knew I had dinner sorted.
A big part of my week went to trying on jeans at the mall. One of those times, a girl came up to me as I was holding a big stack in my hands and asked where I’d gotten my cotton pants. They’re from Marks & Spencers, I said, feeling flattered that a girl who works at the pants store liked my pants. She had never heard of Marks & Spencers before, which caught me off guard because I'd spent many hours of my childhood in their dressing rooms. My mother, like many women who grew up in the desert and loved Princess Diana, loved shopping at British stores. Marks & Spencers, Debenhams, BHS. I hope she lucks out with the pants like I have.
While taking notes in the dressing room (low-rise, medium to dark wash, bootcut with occasional flare), chee texted asking if I fancied hanging out with her and her two friends. She had landed in Toronto that morning, an event I’d marked in my calendar. I'd been anticipating it. She was the last person I’d said goodbye to when I left London a year ago and the first I’d see since. I told her I’d finish trying on the jeans and join them.
Her friends were delightful, just like Laura was in Amsterdam. One of them asked how we met and chee indulged her, saying that we met in a bar across from the paper where we both used to work then I broke up with her and left the country. That was two years you just jumped, I thought. She told her that I was wearing a pink M&S shirt that day and I smiled when the friend raised her eyebrows.
I was curious if it would be odd reuniting in a group setting but it was lovely and easy and we sat next to each other and got to catch up, just us two. I got to know her friends a little too and thought about how much I’d love to see them again and meet their elderly cats. We said our goodbyes when we got sleepy and chee and I walked a few minutes down the block to her hotel. We found her room door wide open and felt mildly shaken until she slowly realized she had just forgotten to shut the door. She put her head in my lap and we continued talking while I brushed her hair - now pink and short - with my fingers. When it got late, I asked if she could order me a taxi home and she did. It was a lovely reunion, much lovelier than I imagined it would be. That makes me lucky.
We met up every day for the rest of the week.
One of the other special days was meeting up at the SkyDome an hour before the Blue Jays game with the Mariners. I had never been to a baseball game before and felt mesmerized by the vibes at the stadium. There was this massive lounge area filled with couples in matching jerseys and guitar players and good vibes. Everyone looked happy and fresh. I always imagine sports events to be angry and sweaty but everyone looked so happy and fresh. We got in a queue for a gluten-free hot dog, chicken tenders, fries and two diet cokes. She kindly explained how baseball works and I tried to follow the game but couldn’t stop being distracted by the optics. We left five minutes before the game was over and that made for the perfect ending to the evening. I took her to the Marriott because she needed to pee and then she went back to monologuing and I went back to feeling stupid.
The next morning, when we were sitting on the reading nook, I talked in the abstract. I have a pretty good idea of who I am but it feels like it goes out of the window when I’m with a particular person. This makes me obsess over how they perceive me and I find myself wondering what if I’m not who I thought I was at all? and if I’m not who I thought I was, who am I? She said I’m still who I think I am, I just have to tell them. I’m all about that, she added, smiling. I said that I’m trying to do that with clothes right now, that I think wearing clothes that feel like me will bring me closer to people and vibes I want to be around. We’d spent twenty hours attached at the hip, so I found it hard to part ways. On the subway, I felt the pull again and kept my earphones off and my e-reader tucked away in my bag and tried to sit with the feeling that’s so adamant on befriending me.
The four-hour birding workshop was enjoyable, lengthy, sick. We sat in a circle at the park and learned about the different kinds of birds out there and how to tell them apart. I’d been eyeing this girl’s shoes from across the circle, trying to muster the courage to approach her later and ask her about them. When the walking tour started, I nearly jumped out of my skin when she came up behind me and said she liked my cap. I told her I really like her shoes, that I’d been eyeing them from across the circle, and we chit-chatted for the rest of the tour, stopping occasionally to look through our binoculars at teeny tiny birds.
On Sunday, I woke up with an itchy throat and rushed to gather ailment reliefs (warm water with salt, spearmint tea, sucking mint) from around my flat to try to feel well enough to say goodbye. While waiting for chee in a Harbourfront cafe, I pulled out my maps app and wrote this is Toronto’s version of London England’s Canada Water. She turned up with a friend whose nails matched her top and who quickly said hello and goodbye. While I was at the washroom, chee picked up my bill (cortado, espresso, sweet potato fries, lemon and ginger tea) and we walked back to her hotel room to pick up her big green bag. When her Uber arrived, we did a big hug and she kissed my cheek and I hers. She looked back from inside the car and I smiled, turning away when I felt the wetness on my face. I put on my sunglasses and called my mother.