It was the sort of situation that I would aggressively avoid in normal circumstances. A curated series of public performances by local spoken word artists on the back lawn of a Presbyterian church located in the old neighbourhood.

The ticket said to arrive early but also set the start time as twilight so I made a date with JT for late afternoon.

The old neighbourhood was struggling to appear vibrant. Flags chanted the local business improvement area’s crowdsourced neighbourhood nickname in a boxy font from every lamppost along the main drag.

The place that we had agreed to meet used to be a decent cafe where you could score a dime and maybe a stick of opium on occasion but was now an upscale bistro where the most interesting that you’d be likely to score was an airborne respiratory virus from a local realtor. The floor plan had been reimagined in the years since I had last been here and it had all the charm of an out of town consultant from the linoleum industry who’s behind on car payments. There were booths along the wall now and the tables were no longer made of wood but some type of unknowable composite material designed to look like marble but whose chief characteristic seemed to wipeability. The exterior of the building had a fresh coat of black paint applied in recent enough years that the summer sun hadn’t yet bubbled or bleached it. But those days were coming.

A lean teenaged host, wearing a black rugby shirt with a logo on the left breast, appeared from behind a large fake plant and asked if we’d like the patio and I didn’t see why not. They led us out to an area out back of the bistro that was nicely shaded by tall maples. A little breeze carried the scent of a nearby grease trap. There was a murmur of traffic from the street.

The city of South Echo is poisoned with ghosts. The streets have never adequately contained them. They hang from the trees along the back avenues in plain sight for all to see. | Image @phanbernadette