Heading south on Broadview, I have seated myself in the rear of the streetcar, curling my numb toes inside my shoes and flexing my gloved fingers; I had waited at the stop for twenty-five minutes, during which the temperature had dropped from 1C to -1C. I glance about. To my right is a middl . . . (More)

Queen and Leslie stop. The driver: Attractive, fit, probably in his early forties. An accent I can't quite place. Neat, pale blue shirt under a navy sweater vest -- unadorned but for the burgundy crest of the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) emblazoned on his left breast. Grey trousers, with . . . (More)

She wore a faded denim jacket, stonewashed, over a white shirt with a classic collar. On anyone less youthful and sure, it would've been unfashionably plain. For warmth -- it was a chilly evening -- she tied a scarf around her neck, dark blue and mahogany silk, shot through with silver stran . . . (More)

No one sat next to me on the streetcar ride home. I wondered if it was the poopy shoe. On a different note, on the same journey, I observed a pair of men on a motorcycle. The passenger was clutching onto the seat on which he was perched, instead of clutching onto the driver's waist. Not only . . . (More)

Sans social companions for the day, I trampled down to BMV to score a few books. Strange people congregate in bookstores -- myself included, naturally, but my strangeness is kept inside, whereas others seem to put it on the outside. I've been delayed by a blind Lord of the Rings fanatic and a man . . . (More)

I was down at BMV at Yonge and Edward Sts. today around half past noon, there to whittle away the last half hour of my lunchtime. I will say now that I realistically do not need any more books. And really, I've become so frugal that even BMV's prices are too much for me, but the air-condit . . . (More)