I was recently enjoying a cup of chai with the delectable Asma of Curry Go and we got to talking about a phenomenon that happens every spring in Montreal. That is, the minute the temperature rises, the city breaks out with barely contained breasts, half-released bums and long white thighs.
We discussed the possibility of our advancing maturity perhaps influencing the rapidity with which we wrinkle our noses at American-Apparel-ed girls lounging on the slopes of Mont Royal. Or maybe it’s the aversion to 80s fashion that only those who actually lived in the 80s could experience. But no.
It’s that I’m mourning the death of subtlety, and by extension, a loss for the art of seduction.