She's at one of the ridiculously small tables, drinking and sparkling at a man
in a silver vest and some kind of skirt that looks like the kind of thing I
laugh at until I catch myself trying one on
We make eye-contact. I smile and start to stand. I even point at my knee and
grin. Her date says something, and I see, behind the twinkle, a total lack of
recognition. She turns to him and I see myself in the mirror behind her.
My hair's longer. I'm not wearing a bathrobe. I've got some meat on my bones.
I'm not walking with a cane. Still, I'm *me*. I want to walk over to her and
give her a hug, roll up my pants and show her the gob of scar tissue around my
knee, find out where Tony the Tiger's got to.
But I don't. I don't know why, but I don't. If I had a comm, I might try calling
her, so she'd see my name and then I wouldn't have to say it to her. But I don't
have a comm.
I feel, suddenly, like a ghost.
I test this out, walk to the bar, circling Daisy's table once on the way and
again on the way back. She sees me but doesn't recognise me, both times. I
overhear snatches of her conversation, "-- competing next weekend in a
black-belt competition -- oh, man, I can't *believe* what a pain in the ass my
boss was today -- want another drink --" and it's her voice, her tones, but
somehow, it doesn't seem like *her*.
It feels melancholy and strange, being a ghost. I find myself leaving the bar,
and walking off towards Yonge Street, to the Eatons-Walmart store where Tony the
Tiger worked.
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