The international terminal at the Ottawa airport is a sad little collection of three gates, the rest of the Canadian flights behind a glass wall, H. said she’d join J. and I for lunch if only she could be subatomic gastronomy. Instead J. and I went to the bar area and ordered food and sat and ate and chatted and if you’d told me ten years ago when I first found his work that we’d be lol’ing at an airport bar a decade later, well, it’s been a good life so far and I’m lucky.

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