Hello Halifax, my old friend. Dalhousie: Class of 2000. Apparently you can get a decent job with an arts degree. I’m here on business. And no, my meetings are not at Ralph’s Showbar. (Those are called meatings.)

It’s tempting to reenact the ol’ downtown shuffle of my 18 — er, 19 — year-old-self. But none of my skirts are short enough. And I’m a little rusty at grinding Greek men. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Most of the old stomping grounds are gone anyways. Merrill’s? No more. JJ Rossy’s? Long, long gone. My university days are a distant memory; but a hint of cheap tequila on the Argyle Street air.

It’s just as well. These days, as a busy working mother with a toddler who wakes up every other night at 3am yelling “Apple juice!”, or “I like cheese,” or “Boobieeeeeees,” I have a whole other idea of pleasure.

And I have found it. Sweet solitary ecstasy. Right here in downtown Halifax.

I am going to straddle the chubby one, front right, in 3… 2… 1…

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