This is Booky:
Booky was my workbook/journal from when I lived in Toronto for a six-month freelance gig. It was six months of wintery bliss. I had a huge crush on a coworker. He had as much of a crush on me as he was capable. It wasn't enough. It seemed at the time that no crush was ever enough.
Regardless, we took our workbooks to the coffee shop day after day. We sipped coffee, pretended to work and laughed, laughed, laughed. We laughed our heads off. We laughed at the Holt Renfrew girls that sashayed by. We laughed at the ridiculousness of our clients and of our advertising careers. We laughed especially hard about our love lives. All over spilled Timothy's coffee and wobbly café tables. I spent a lot of money $1.10 at a time.
Spring blew in and the streets were warm again. People walked with their heads held high rather than baring down just to get in from the cold. I warmed to the streets, too. I thought I could live in Toronto again. I fantasized about my future apartment in High Park. About blossoming trees in my yard. About roots.
You know what they say. If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. In the end, Toronto and I were not meant to be, but oh what a time we had. Inspiration seeps through the cracks in the sidewalk. Street names slide of the tongue like romantic poems... Gerard, Adelaide, Queen, King, Spadina.
The Art Gallery of Ontario, the ethnic smells, the faces from around the globe and the pride of a blue maple leaf all remain a dear romance of ages ago. No I move on with an ember in my heart for my lost city.
How grand we were.