Swipe right. Put your finger on the pixels. Five women celebrating New Year’s in a condo in downtown Toronto. The room is so small that our knees almost touch and we’re up close with each other’s faces. Streetcars grind and lurch on King Street below.
We are beautiful, not old yet. We touch glasses. This year will be different.
But we are all still single. We laugh and joke and dance around this fact. We bitch and complain about men. There’s a kind of feminine bravado, a loneliness, that the warmth of the fire and the booze in our bellies can’t quite permeate.
We are all still single. No matter how beautiful, accomplished, smart.
We blame dating. We blame apps. We blame our careers, lack of time. Privately we blame ourselves.
We drink into the night, toast to our ambitions.
Outside it’s 3am and the streets are full of sound and light. And the sky above the lake the city rests against is so clear and dark you can see the stars.