A Walk Through the City

The wind bit, a proper Manitoban sneer, straight through the thick wool of my toque, digging into the small, exposed strip of skin above my scarf. It was the kind of cold that seemed to hollow out the bones, that made your teeth ache just from existing. I pulled my shoulders up, a futile effort against the sheer, physical insistence of the winter, and sped up my pace. My boots crunched over the packed snow, the sound sharp and solitary in the pre-dusk quiet of Portage Avenue. Another Tuesday, another self-inflicted tour of the memory lane I swore I’d paved over years ago. Apparently, the municipal budget hadn’t stretched to that particular psychological infrastructure project.

My mind, usually a chaotic archive of client briefs and overdue invoices, was currently a projector stuck on a single, grainy film loop. The storefronts I passed blurred into a montage of what-ifs. Each icy gust carried the phantom scent of stale coffee and the distant, tinny echo of a vinyl needle dropping onto a groove. Dave. Always Dave, when the winter got its claws into the city and into my head. It was the winter we’d tried to open 'The Listening Post'. The year we’d believed, with a youthful arrogance I now found both sweet and profoundly cringe-worthy, that we could bottle culture and sell it alongside artisanal lattes. What were we thinking? Or more precisely, what was *I* thinking? He was the dreamer, I was… the enabler, I suppose. The slightly less unhinged optimist.

A flicker of iridescent colour caught my eye: a bus shelter ad, frosted over, depicting a family laughing over hot chocolate. Their cheer felt almost aggressive in its falseness. My own breath plumed out, a ghost of a thought, then vanished into the frigid air. The streetlights, already on despite the lingering grey light, cast long, watery reflections on the ice-glazed pavement. It felt like walking through a photograph that was slowly fading, the edges blurring into an indistinguishable wash of white and grey.

The Faded Blueprint

Dave had sketched out the initial plans on a napkin, stained with what I suspect was cheap gin. He’d seen the raw potential in that old, narrow building on McDermott Avenue, a place that had been a dry cleaner’s since the dawn of time. I remembered the exact curve of his hand as he’d drawn the counter, the tiny circles representing our hypothetical turntables, the sprawling letters of our hopeful name. I’d seen it too, or at least, I’d seen *him* seeing it. His enthusiasm was a contagion, and I, ever susceptible, had caught it whole. That was the problem, wasn't it? I’d caught his dream instead of cultivating my own.

My fingers, tucked deep into my mitts, were still numb at the tips. I rubbed them together, feeling the coarse wool. The kind of cold that reminded you how much of a flimsy sack of water and bone you really were. We’d lasted six months. Six glorious, arguments-punctuated, sleep-deprived months. The initial rush of painting walls and building shelves, fuelled by awful pizza and worse coffee, had given way to the slow, grinding reality of overheads and inventory. Dave wanted obscure, limited-edition drone music from Icelandic artists no one had ever heard of. I wanted more mainstream indie, something people might actually buy. 'It’s about the experience, Thomas!' he’d yelled, his face flushed, spittle flying, 'Not just moving units!'

He’d been right, in a way. He was always right about the *idea* of it. The soul. But the soul doesn’t pay the rent. And my attempts to inject some commercial sense into his artistic vision felt, to him, like a betrayal. I remember standing in the centre of that empty shop, the echo of our last shouted words still hanging in the air like a bitter mist, watching him pack his favourite, utterly unsellable 12-inch single into a beat-up canvas bag. His back had been ramrod straight. He never looked back. I just stood there, hands shoved in my pockets, already feeling the heavy, cold weight of failure settle into my chest. The kind of weight that makes your shoulders hunch, even years later, as you walk down a freezing street.

I passed a construction site, skeletal rebar reaching for the sky like frozen, metallic trees. The clang of a distant hammer echoed, sharp and lonely. This city, forever tearing down and building anew, seemed to mock my static internal landscape. My own life had become a series of sensible, safe choices, a reaction to that spectacular, public implosion. A career in marketing, solid, predictable, devoid of anything approaching risk or raw passion. It paid the bills, it bought me a small, quiet flat, and it kept the ghosts of 'The Listening Post' at bay, most of the time. But sometimes, like now, in the relentless grip of a Winnipeg winter, they clawed their way out of the permafrost of memory.

A small dog, wrapped in a ridiculous miniature coat, yipped excitedly at its owner, dragging them towards a snowbank. Its pure, unadulterated joy felt alien, a splash of vibrant, impossible colour against the monochrome of my thoughts. I remembered Dave’s dog, a scruffy terrier named 'Wax', who would chase dust bunnies under the record bins, convinced they were tiny, elusive rodents. We’d shared so many laughs, so many stupid, late-night conversations about the future, about art, about anything and everything. The loss of the friendship, in many ways, stung more than the financial ruin.

Echoes in the Glare

The wind picked up again, whipping a flurry of fine, powdery snow off the buildings, stinging my cheeks. I squinted, hunching further into my coat. My eyes watered, not from sadness, not exactly, but from the physical assault of the cold. It was good, in a way, this blunt, undeniable discomfort. It anchored me, albeit painfully, to the present moment, to the reality of my chilled nose and aching toes. The memory, for a moment, receded from a sharp image to a dull ache.

I spotted a small coffee shop, its windows fogged, a warm, inviting glow spilling out onto the pavement. People sat inside, huddled over steaming mugs, their voices a low murmur I couldn’t quite distinguish. For a fleeting second, I pictured Dave and myself there, arguing good-naturedly over the merits of some obscure B-side, the air thick with steam and the promise of a future we truly believed in. That version of Thomas, younger, more naive, utterly fearless in his folly, felt like a stranger now. Had I killed him off with my practicality? Or had he simply melted away, a casualty of the freezing reality of adult life?

My hands fumbled with the zipper of my coat, pulling it even higher, up to my chin. The metal felt ice-cold against my fingers. I watched a young couple, bundled in matching scarves, walk past, their laughter a bright, fleeting chime. They were probably talking about rent, or groceries, or some banal, wonderful future. They weren’t dragging a decade-old corpse of a failed dream behind them, not yet anyway. I felt a weird kinship with them, a sort of whimsical pity. They'd learn. Or they wouldn't. Maybe that was the difference.

The reflection felt urgent now, not just melancholic. A fast current running through the ice-locked river of my mind. What had I done since? Maintained. Survived. But what about *thrived*? What about that spark, that belief, however misguided, that I could create something? I was an adult now. I understood balance sheets. I understood market trends. I understood the merciless appetite of the Winnipeg winter. But I also understood, finally, the subtle, creeping dissatisfaction that had become a constant companion, a dull thrum beneath the surface of my otherwise sensible life.

I kicked at a loose chunk of ice, sending it skittering across the pavement with a surprisingly satisfying sound. It wasn't about reopening 'The Listening Post'. That particular ship had sailed, sunk, and probably formed a new, highly-exclusive habitat for arctic shrimp by now. It wasn't even, really, about Dave anymore. It was about me. About the Thomas who had walked into that dry cleaner’s with a foolish, vibrant hope. The whimsical irony of it all. I’d spent years avoiding that particular brand of foolishness, only to realise its absence left a far colder, emptier space than any failure ever could.

My feet kept moving, a rhythm of purpose taking over the aimless shuffle. The frozen grit beneath my boots felt different now, less a reminder of cold, more a solid foundation. I thought about the marketing pitch I’d been wrestling with for weeks – a new flavour of artisanal potato chips. Chips. My life had devolved into artisanal chips. My mind took a sudden, associative leap to a dusty old guitar I had in the back of my closet, unplayed for years. A small, almost imperceptible shift in my internal landscape. The thought landed, soft and certain, like a snowflake on a mitten. It was time to find my own damn music.

I wasn't just walking away from the cold anymore; I was walking towards something. Something new, something I hadn't even dared to name, but the chill that had settled deep in my bones was starting to shift, ever so slightly, with a flicker of internal warmth.