as clear as the moon in the deadnight sky

It had been a while since Amy and I had walked the mountain, rubbernecking our way past the most beautiful homes in the city on foot.

You know you're doing something right when your address is 32 Mcchulloch or 120 Springgrove. Old money in old English neighbourhoods. Nothing like those wannabe cookie-cutter Suburban Chateaus in St. Laurent or Vimont. Even the nagging socialist in me is ready to forgive the blatant display of wealth on postcard merit alone. Cue the full moon hanging just above the bare trees, bouncing off the mirrored snow banks and the flickering panorama of a candle light city.

Fuck that. I would pay anything to wake up to this kind of beauty everyday.

I'm lost in my thoughts as we wind along dead end streets and small walkways that end in random backyards. But I do ask Amy just how much of my blog she read last night.

All of it.
All 29 posts?
Yup.

(She actually told me so for the first time this morning in that sleepy little eternity between the time she leaves for work and the time I wake up. I remember her mentioning how much she enjoyed this very personal side of my writing. Something about creative juices flowing. The rest is foggy)

I don't get much more clarity on the whole thing, which suits me fine. "You're a man of few words tonight." A classic Amy line - often uttered as a question.

Words are very, unnecessary - I half sing, half mumble to myself.
Huh???
Nothing.

Sometimes I wish she would simply enjoy my silence. Not be so suspicious of it.