By: Adonis Rossignol
Word Count: ~ 9,530
Ah, the summer of 2010, what memories. What emotions held me back all these years, I still think about it all. Every now and then, as I drive to work in the freezing weather of Toronto, that glimpse of time, the moments of magic and everything about it still pangs my memory. Everything that my eyes experience, every pulse of my heart, every touch and taste, and every step taken in such vivid imaginations and sensations. Within one flake of snow, wiped away by my car's windshield, there I could see in the mirror a man who had lived in that summer. A man who would proudly boast to all his peers that he truly lived in a summer that most would only yearn for and dream about. And with each sip of the hot black coffee that I placed on the cupholder in the center of the front seats, whose hotness brings nostalgia for that sultry summer heat. Just a few more years, I would always tell myself, until I get out from Toronto and retire somewhere warm or head back home in the Mediterranean. But no matter whatever I will experience: be it another summer trip to my homeland in Rhodes or a fortnight vacation in the Caribbean (or in the Pacific isles if I'm feeling really lucky) to escape the cruel winter—no places can ever out-compete to the summer that I had back in 2010.
In that time, the words winter and snowstorms and other sundries became completely obsolete in my vocabulary. I thought not little about fall until that memorable era faded away when I saw the colours of the trees already turning into a peerless art. Autumn has its own charm and beauty, but it's so short-lived in Toronto that by the time November comes, the forest in which nature uses as its canvas falls apart. Opening up only when May comes around. But the summers here, I've always cherished it greatly. Everything here just feels so lively, sprung with unattainable energy unmatched in any other season.
But where do I even start retelling what has happened ten years ago? I was a different person compared to now. Different outlooks in life and different disposition to everything. I was more rambunctious back then compared to now when I am most humble with myself and quieter. It's like I'm staring myself at some mirror of empty pages, if not for them being so opaque. Within each passing page, I could see the moments of what I had experienced during that summer. I could see a younger version of myself reflected in the pages, just a goatee and smirks on his face. He felt like he was reawakening as I started writing about the summer of 2010. A communication to the past, with words and thoughts corresponding at that time.
To ironically portray myself as an old being, I lit my candle and took hold of a notebook gifted to me on my 30th birthday. With that being said, I shall begin my retelling of that vivid summer.
It was roughly eight o'clock when I had arrived home after I had attended my last class for today, which was a Spanish course. It was one of those electives my program allowed me to take and I thought why not learn it? I certainly find it a beautiful language, and it sounds far more pleasing than French (although, even after all these years, a bit of French remains stubbornly in my memory!). Unlike most people in my university, I never had the privilege of staying on a campus; instead, I stayed in some six-story apartment where my room was a bachelor's room. The entire apartment was owned by my father's brother. It's funny, but every male in my father's second generation has always occupied that room. It was in that apartment, situated nearby Bloor and Lansdowne, where across the other side of where I lived was a larger condominium. I knew a couple of people from that condo, because a couple blocks down, close to Lansdowne, was a bar where most of the people who had lived in that condo went there, usually on Thursday to Saturday nights. The bar, with its two billiard tables, always hosted groups of people playing and carousing.
That bar was always a place to meet new people and just who knows how many people I've met from going to that bar on almost a frequent basis. Some good-hearted folks who love a good potation every once in a while, having the tendency to buy me a shot or two out of cordial gestures—to incomprehensible alcoholics who hail from my country and drink so much that I can't understand their Greek or their English. Sometimes, if I was feeling really lucky, I'd usually end up scoring some salacious women and spend the rest of the night in more discreet manners. But that's another thing to be discussed, yet none can ever think of rivaling the likes of the lady I saw.
I went home that night, with the thought of the exams coming up; I was filled with angst because that meant that I would assiduously study everything that I had learned from the second semester. All with sheer determination sponsored by consumption of coffee and Adderall. But because it was still the third week in March, I thought no better than to spend my Thursday night going to that same bar nearby. In a simple attire of navy-blue jeans, a white t-shirt and that iconic Adidas tracksuit, I headed out from my bachelor's room by running down the stairs post haste as if I was missing an important train.
It was usually quiet for a Thursday night, but then again it was only 9 o'clock and this place doesn't get busy within an hour. Hitherto I was sitting patiently, waiting to have my usual round of a few two or three beers followed by a glass of ice with two shots of rum, when suddenly I heard someone calling out my name. I turned my head and lo-and-behold; it was one of those frequent patrons, a Colombian by the name of Eduardo. He arrived with two of his other Colombian friends, who all gathered around me as he whistled at me in delight.
"
¡Ay, Jorge! ¿Qué tal? ¡Qué de tiempo!
" said Eduardo as he sat next to me, gently punching me on my shoulder. He then hollered at the bartender and demanded that everyone should start with a drink of tequila, accounting for four shots to start the night.
"
Estoy más o menos. En dos semanas, tengo que estudiar para mi examen
," I replied as I observed the bartender pouring each of us our shot of tequila.
We all proceeded to cheer in our languages, a
giamas
for me and a
salud
from the rest. Because Eduardo is the superintendent of that building, he brought any source of news about that neighbouring condo. This time was no exception and instead of talking about some of the crazier people there, he talked about something that captured my eye. In his sharp, Hispanic accent he said:
"Yesterday,
amigo,
at three, I saw a beautiful face in the building. She was a-new
señorita.
She wait in the lobby, when I come and tell her if she needs help.
Señorita
tells me she is going to the office because she waits for security. I point her to the right of the hallway—where the first door to the left is."
"So why didn't you...you know, talk to her more? Like ask her out or something."
"Man, you crazy," he said with a gentle vexation and showed his ring in one of his fingers, "I a married man. She can be for you, but no for me."
This was the moment that I heard such hearsay from Eduardo. I pressed forward and asked him if he knew the next time she would come to the condo so I could be there and see her for myself. But such questions were in vain, as he sincerely did not know the next time she'll be heading to the condo. He suggested two choices: either I see myself working in the office or when he sees her, he will find a clandestine way to convince this lady to come to the bar (where I would be present on those days). I saw to the second choice, where it would be acumen to head to the bar and celebrate the completion of my final year. In satisfaction, Eduardo rose up and called the bartender to pour another round. Notably, the men still savoured their tequila. One man was only halfway done while the rest an eighth done.
