In a Montreal loft on The Plateau we lay and sit sprawled out in the sun. The room is warm, we work in silence: typing, writing, drawing, sewing.
Our music, is an upbeat jazz-punk Rock somebody. Muffled conversations of our neighbours drift through the walls.
From the roof hang plants feeding themselves in the golden abundance.
It is February, Concordia has its reading week and McGill’s will follow.
We squint as we get work done. The air is crisp and thoughts come and go floating through my mind. Occasionally, we readjust so the sun isn’t in our eyes. It’s reading week but it may as well be a spring break. It is warm enough.
The sounds of vehicles driving past on Boulevard Saint Laurent rise up to us. Varied artists played by passenger seat DJs are featured for a few seconds as they enter and exit earshot.
It could be sunny California, the difference could not be discriminated with these bare backs, sports bras, short sleeves and short pants. It is warm outside and hot inside. Everything is relative.
There is a stretch, a yawn, a smile. The calm persists and these sounds of silence continue to play.