The time between meeting and finally leaving is sometimes called...

Remember that Lisa Loeb song? Anyway...

Meet my first real friend here in Halifax: Matthew, who I've been dating for about a month now. That's the two of us in a cafe called The Second Cup. I applied for a job in that cafe. Never heard back from them but I'm not sore about it. I won't boycott their products anyway. At least they aren't actively supporting the strike on Lebanon like Starbucks is.

I'm sure you guys would like Matt. He's a really good guy. Better than me, that's for sure. And he bakes. Trixie gets a kick out of the stories I tell her because she says he treats me 'like a girl'. What she means is, well - I'm sort of being 'romanced'..? in the way that my female friends like to be courted by boys. He's very thoughtful and nurturing, with a classic romantic streak, candle-light dinners and everything short of flowers, which, unfortunately, I'm not really used to and gets a lot of uneasy laughter out of me. Lambing. There. That's the word.

God doesn't wince.

Job-wise, I trained as a host today. It's now my job to greet guests, seat them, inform them of our fruit cocktail of the day, clear tables, take cash, answer the phone, polish silverware, refill coffee cups, and tell people to "Have a nice day!" And all I can tell myself is, "At least it's not, 'Do you want fries with that?'"

I'm basically trading garbage and sludge for irate customers and service staff politics. The latter usually smells better but it's not nearly as agreeable. I'm still deciding which devil I'm better acquainted with... As a dishwasher, I get paid better by the hour but I work long, hard hours, and I go home feeling achey and worn out. With this hostessing job, I get paid less, work less, but I have more time and energy for other things - like applying to schools, making art, and going to the gym. But seriously, I made just 35 dollars today. That's measley over here. That's barely a meal and a cab ride home. I have to think about things... like getting a second, part-time job. Midnight cowboy, anyone?

Autumn is hanging on an outstretched branch's fingertip, a withered leaf ready to downspiral towards the dead, dead grass. My grey winter days will be spent on buses, eyes closed, lips synching with the lyrics of Sondre Lerche and Aimee Mann. "One..."