Casual morality puts another nail in the coffin of lasting happiness. Little Portugal, the old men laugh on stoops, the gentrifiers laugh from their curiosity shops and vegan organic cafe/nigtclubs. From the second story window, just the grey crown to the hoary smile showing, an old man on a respirator watches the street with sparkling eyes. Bare shouldered prostitute, man in cutoffs on a bike swerving dangerously, young mother wearing a t shirt with the message "I look better without you." Old parks in a young city, the universities tooth in on entire blocks marking their territory with small plaques near the mailboxes. TIFF and the stars are in town. Movies are for rich people, so it's twelfth night on the front porch and backyard picnics for the rest of us. Martin makes the salad, I make the beets, Rachel brings sparkling water in stemmed glasses. The milky neighbor cat with crossed blue eyes squints like a mendicant. Green grapes glisten ripe on the vine that holds the building together.