and she said it was too warm for a jacket, but I wore one anyway. A light jacket. We had picked it up at the army store, only ten dollars. I hoped no one died in it. Then I see the white maple leaf, patch sewn, small, left shoulder. I feel better. The night was warm, but not "too warm" to my dismay. We walked through the dizzy streets, adding familiars to our marching pack. Now, six people strong. Now seven. A long walk, but it feels good on my feet. We arrive late, and not the kind associated with fashion. Fashion had come and gone, and we've missed most of it. Just three mini women in maxi-dresses stomping their sandals to the oldies upstairs, we don't know them but we watch; in the basement, a heavy base line, it rattles the bathroom mirror(s). The two sounds don't mix. He can only get three of us in, everyone else needs to pay. At a quarter-to too late for a Thursday, I slip off, slipping off my jacket and climbing into the sticky backseat of a stuffy cab. I text a goodbye, but it doesn't go through. Not right away, at least. Despite it, I am happy. Can you roll the windows, down? It's too warm for me back here.