![]() Parc Avenue is laid out below us, the mountain hulking darkly beyond. I lead them past filmy skylights and ventilation units until we are at the edge, looking down over the balustrades of the Rialto Theatre. “This is incredible,” they say, surveying the extensive, multilevel rooftop. Once we reach the top, uncertainty turns to elation. My date follows me hesitantly up the swaying five-storey stairway. “Come on,” I say, with what I hope is a rakish grin. I jump back onto the ground and place a foot on the metal slats. I hoist myself on top of the recycling bin, armpits slick with summer sweat, and yank the rusted metal of the fire escape ladder, meant to be tucked out of reach, so that its first step meets the garbage-puddled concrete of the alley. It’s not true-I’ve watched someone else do it, but I feign confidence. ![]() ![]() “Wait there,” I say over my shoulder to my date, whose face blurs in the purple light of early sunrise. ![]()
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