It’s a busy Thursday evening, and I am waiting at a busy intersection. I am not very busy, and I dawdle on my phone as I wait. He’s two minutes late;I was told a place, and a time, nothing else. A car pulls over, and a man pulls me in. It’s Eight, a busy celebrity-stylist who, as he assures me, seldom kidnaps his dates to whisk them off to mysterious faraway places.
He studied at a textile school in Canada and lived there for five years, but ultimately left behind a dozen acquaintances, a start-up job and a live-in girlfriend to move back home. I nod away, without batting an eyelid. I could ask him why he came back. I could ask him what happened to the girlfriend. I could ask him whether he’s sure about his sexuality.
‘Where are we off to?’ I ask him instead. You can’t blame me for being suspicious. He had been strangely cryptic on the phone. He laughs, and tells me he’s got a fun evening planned. His favourite band is performing at one of the more upscale mills in town, and he’s been dying to watch them ever since he got back from the Great North. Would I like to get a drink before?
‘Where do I sign up?’, I ask him.
He laughs again. But first, we have to take a slight detour.