"the night is a liar, it will never be a friend to anyone" Andre Ethier, "The Night"
I'm walking home down Commercial, a little after 4 a.m. It's the start of the day, but it's the end of mine. I'm on my way home, to curse the motion-sensor lights and to try to be gentle with the door.
Fresh newspapers are being delivered to the squat metal bins outside convenience stores, still closed for the night. In the coin-op boxes I see tomorrow's headlines today. I'm glimpsing into the future. It will be another two-to-four hours before the rest of the city knows what I know, but this secret knowledge is useless. I won't have anyone to tell it to until mid-to-late afternoon. By then it will be old news.
It reminds me of Montreal, when I was young(er). When I could close a St-Laurent bar and stumble out into the street to meet newspaper hawkers with fresh broadsheets. I wasn't all that interested in the news back then. In fact, the one time I actually went out in search of a newspaper, I didn't even know where to look for one. I found what I was looking for (a place to live) en route. I remember it as a Wednesday morning, though I have no reason to believe it was actually so.