I like twenty-five cent peep shows and I like to feel smart. I’m riding the bus and I think you’re awesome because when I shiver you ask me why I don’t own a proper winter jacket. The Italian man on the bus is holding a strange black plastic bag tightly closed with a white hair clip. He is flirting with the women in the ivory coloured wool jacket. “I run around False Creek, ten kilometres,” he says in his charmingly askew English and points out the window into the darkness. “Cool,” she replies. “Do you want to go to Metrotown on Saturday and get your picture taken with Santa?” He laughs and tells her about a cocktail he invented and then about a sommelier who keeps poking him on Facebook.