I eat my fries in even numbers. Mostly in pairs, occasionally in fours, but never singly or in threes, and never, never in groups larger than what one can comfortably fit into one's mouth. It's just a strange habit I developed, I guess.

It's not like I eat fries that much, even. I don't like too much carbs, and I don't like too much fried stuff. But every once in a while, once a month or so, I get the urge to have a few. The urge has gone down considerably over the past few years, and I feel pleased that I've beaten it, mostly. Yesterday wasn't one of those days.

So there I was in the passenger seat, Greg racing twilight down the Merritt, a small packet of Burger King fries sitting on my lap. I fed him the requisite first pair. "What happens at the end?" he asked.

"At the end?" I said.

"Yes, at the end. When you have no more fries left." I glanced down and saw another two with similar characteristics. These were short and crispy at the ends. I paired them and put them into my mouth. "What happens if you get to the end and there's an odd number of fries?"

"Simple," I said, and I fed him a long, fleshy pair. "You redefine what a fry is."

Greg looked at me and smiled. "Oh," he said.

"You can pair a long fry with a stub, and that'll be okay because you've defined the stub as a fry. Simple thing, like most problems in life: you redefine your reference system."

"Oh," he repeated. And we continued driving along the tree-lined parkway, racing against the setting sun and munching on pairs of fries.

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The couple drive in their convertible with the top down, the cool evening air dancing through the woman's hair as they head uptown to the west side. They are holding hands, his eyes on the road, hers on the red dress of a passing pedestrian. Their young Scottish terrier is in the backseat, his head bobbing up and down as the car glides by, effortlessly. He looks confused with all the air rushing by him. Something's wrong with this car, he seems to say. Isn't there supposed to be a window here somewhere? What good is a car if there are no windows to stick your head through? Where did all my windows go? They were here just yesterday.

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I could have been there.

I could have been there one year ago at the top of the world, waiting for my world to end. I could have been there at the risk conference being held at Windows on the World on the 107th floor, but instead I was at a risk conference somewhere else. Somewhere several blocks north. Somewhere safe, thankfully.

The start of our conference was delayed as we got news that a plane had hit the first tower. "Must be a small plane," my colleague said. We nodded and leaned back, astonished that such a freak accident could happen on such a beautifully clear day. The minutes ticked by and we checked our watches. We had another cup of tea, another cup of coffee, another croissant, another danish, waiting for the introductory remarks that would welcome us. It was getting late, and the conference hadn't yet begun.

Then a woman's voice came over the intercom. It was trembling. "I'm sorry, but the conference is indefinitely postponed." That's when we found out the second plane had hit. "Please pray for our colleagues," she said. She was talking about her colleagues who were in the towers, her colleagues who had not come to the conference. We all looked at each other, my colleagues and I, and we began to file out of the building. We hadn't yet fully grasped the gravity of it all.

As we spilled out into the streets, we saw everyone talking anxiously into their cellphones. The payphones were each a dozen people deep. We reached the traffic light and saw people pointing to the sky, their faces pale, their eyes uncomprehending and vacant. That's when we saw the towers for the first time. That's when we stopped in horror. That's when we stood in shock, staring at the black smoke billowing out into the beautiful blue sky. A woman nearby was crying.

We stared at the towers with the gaping holes in the sides, tiny bits of paper floating peacefully down to the ground in macabre contrast to the blackness around it. We walked back to the office in silence.

By the time we got back to the office, everyone was crowded around the tv, watching CNN, watching FOX, watching anything, searching for information. Greg called and I answered, ecstatic that he was okay and thankful that he had gotten through the busy phone lines. I went back to my officemates, back to the images of the second plane plowing angrily into the second tower over and over and over. God, we were all in shock.

Then the first tower came down.

We gasped. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

We glanced around in panic, unsure of what to do. News of more hijacked planes in the air came in, rumors flew around madly. What should we believe? The news websites were saturated. The phone lines were down. Where was Greg? Was he safe now?

Then the second tower came down.

One of the girls in the office screamed. Another sobbed.

Where the fuck was Greg? Why were the goddamned phone lines so jammed? I ran back to my desk.

Finally, after dialing and redialing a thousand times, I got hold of some relatives in Arizona. "Please, please, please let everyone know we're all fine," I said.

"Thank God," they said. "And how's Greg?"

I paused. "I haven't heard from him since since 9:30." I bit my lip.

"We're sure he's okay," they said.

"I'm sure, too," I said. But where the fuck was he?

I put down the phone. Everyone was outside, glued to the tv. I looked around. And when I was sure that no one was nearby, when I was sure no one could see me, I put my head down on my desk and cried.

***

Where were you that day?

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The scab bleeds a little when I flex my knee. It's about an inch in diameter and nothing at all to worry about, but I stare at it warily, bending and unbending my knee in morbid fascination. I didn't realize it would form a scab when I banged my knee last week, but it did. It was a superficial bang-and-scrape, and I hobbled for a bit, and I didn't even think the skin was broken. I guess it was.

I should have guessed the skin was broken after I played a game of squash and the salty sweat seeped down the front of my thigh and made me wince. I winced again when I showered, the happy bubbles of soap teeming and slithering down into my knee.

Now every time I shower, the new scab softens under the warm water cascading off my stomach. The water feels good and tightens the skin when I dry. But when the blood has dried and the skin is too tight, I flex my knee and I can peer deep into the cracks of red that invariably form.

It feels the same as September 11 approaches. Horrible images of falling skyscrapers fill the airwaves and saturate the newspapers. Scabs are being opened again. Pain past afflicted, wounds yet to heal.

Guess we were all hurt more deeply than we knew.

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Labour Day has come and gone, and with it fades the last vestiges of a fleeting summer gone all too quickly by. How swiftly time flies the older we get. Does time really speed up or do we, in our age, just rush along to meet it, hurrying to and fro between meetings, appointments, vacations, broken hearts and funerals?

Do we all rush madly from place to place, dictated by the whims of our social calendars, commanded by the vulgarities of our familial obligations, dominated by domestic chores? Or are we especially prone to fast living here in the city? Fast cars, fast shows, fast food. Fast living. I've got you booked for a two-thirty meeting, sir. Can you fit that in between your trip to Timbuktu and your second marriage? Or would you prefer a three o'clock meeting, between your laundry and the birth of your son?

Pause.

Where's the proverbial rose that we should stop to smell?

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