Boston Pizza

I'm in the bar of a franchise restaurant. The burning ember between my fingers sends its blue-grey fractal offering to the low-grade miasma hovering over me. I register the cool glass of my beer against my hand, consider taking a drink. But I'm stalled by the horror eloquently unfolding on the page in front of me.

I look up from the page, faux nostalgia clinging to the walls struggling to give a sense of history to a pasteboard facade. But the place doesn't feel as rootless as I do at the moment. There is sense of place here, brought in by the locals and well-practiced travellers.

A soft rustle as I turn the page, faintly audible above the 80's rock grooving my fellow drinkers. For the moment, I am at peace