“Do you think dreams come true?” He asks. It’s the first thing he says to me, picking me up from the gas station.

“I’m not sure,” I said, seeing the night stick to the windows. “Depends on the dream, I guess.”

“I don’t think they do,” He drives a little slowly and in my head, I’m already calculating that it will be over $20 unless I tip only 10 percent.

“What do you mean?” There is no moon, and the roads are not that slippery.

“You should really get a car, you know. This is the fifth time I’ve dropped you off.” It’s true. A random taxi cab driver knows where my parents live now. I wonder if he’d get along with my grandmother. Probably. She’s dying for company in suburban Ontario.

“I’m saving up,” I say, thinking of the house I just moved out of. “What were you saying about dreams?”

“Well my son, you know, wants to play at Melbourne – you know, cricket,” he explains, because he’s not sure about just how white I am, just how brown I am. Men of his generation are careful that way – kind that way. “He said “Dad, one day, I’m going to do that.” But it’s not like that will ever happen. But it’s ok you know, because dreams, they get replaced with more dreams even as we reach for them. It’s only people who are satisfied with small things – you know, small house. small small family. Small things – these people don’t dream.”

“My boyfriend plays cricket,” I say.

I’m testing the words,
throwing their weight against the window, see
if they seem to find a way to echo,
shatter glass,
the way the sound out loud, they
fall back against my teeth,
light as feathers, and I think, offhandedly, that I should be flossing more.

“Oh really? What club?” He asks, excitedly. Not so white after all, he decides.  He wants to ask about the boyfriend, I can tell, but he wants to ask about cricket more.

“No, oh nothing like that,” I say, laughing suddenly, surprising myself with my giggles.

“It was never anything serious.”

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