Friday. We gather on a rooftop, Montreal at our feet. Planes thunder and whine overheard. Grenache in my glass, the murmur of the city in my ears. We converse, swill, and hold forth some more. There is nowhere else we would rather be.
Brimming with good food and conversation, we spill into the street. The river of asphalt carries us along. We fall in with fast friends and tumble up some stairs. Cold, clicky sounds and warm bodies. Smiles are currency in an economy of fun.
Good things do not come to an end. They break for pizza.
