Single in the city. Again. I think.
The tall, thin mirror in the hallway of my apartment shows me straightening my tie and, behind, my small, 'intimate' apartment over-looking Queen St. Today, it seems empty and wanting of warmth in the late afternoon glow through the windows; it is, instead, Sophia's absence that fills the apartment and echoes dully in my thoughts. I work at the knot, gently kneading the supple fabric, until the tie hangs correctly.
I study my face in the reflection and the effects of last night's break-up are readily apparent. My eyes, usually bright and mobile, are lacklustre and tired. The dark shadows and lingering redness about the lids loudly proclaim my age as a result of the sleepless night spent in arguement and, after Sophia's hurried departure, emotional turmoil. At 45, I normally show, maybe, 10 years my junior; I am as tall and thin as the mirror before me and the finely tailored, but far too expensive, suit shows the lithe quality of my body. Today, however, I just feel drained.
I had promised myself, nonetheless, that I would go to the gallery show opening despite being on my own; we had planned it for over a month. An image of Sophia mists across the mirror's glass as I button and straighten my jacket; her arm laced over mine and her head, on a cushion of dark curls, rests against my shoulder. Her skin, several shades darker than my own pale complexion, belies the journey made by her ancestors over many generations; first, possibly, from India to the Caribbean and, from there, to Canada in the 1950's. My own history is far less adventurous; the grandparents transferred from Scotland to western Canada in the late 1800's and then my parents made the final move to southern Ontario soon after my birth.
My relationship with Sophia started with comical awkwardness. We were introduced by mutual business colleagues, who, in a series of maneouvers worthy of an international espionage, brought us together at frequent quiet and intimate evenings with friends. We both wore our shyness like bright, red ribbons upon our lapels although a growing confidence and affection soon became apparent. After a long period of a 'fumbling and stumbling' sort of dance, we found ourselves quite happily enjoying each other's company. That was almost ten months ago. The arguement of last night had nothing to do with the differences in culture or history that we both carry so obviously upon us; rather, it had to do with the one thing that can frustrate all people equally in these difficult times: money.
A streetcar bell sounds in the street; its metallic clang reminds me that I have about 10 minutes to reach the corner to catch the next one. I slip into some comfortably worn, black shoes, tugging the laces tight, and pull on my overcoat. I check my pockets for the usual accessories: cell phone, PDA, wallet and keys and then, with a quick scan around the apartment to ensure that all is in order, I set the alarm and step out into the hallway. My keys jingle as I throw the three bolts that secure the door. Out of habit, and despite my subdued mood, I take the single flight of stairs in twos like a boy anxious to explode out of doors and join in a game of street-hockey. I step outside and look down the block just in time to see the streetcar approaching. I dodge the parcels and boxes that bob along on human legs and occlude the sidewalk, and then I slip across a single lane to the pedestrian island. The streetcar rattles and sways to a stop and I join the human ebb and flow to fit into its sardine-tin space.
My own mood changes as quckly as the mood of Queen Street. I watch from a convenient, if cramped, position as neighbourhoods pass by the fingerprint-marked window beside me. Each block has a character entirely its own. Near my apartment, the shops are small, family run, and richly ethnic. The air each day is newly spiced with sandalwood and curry, cardamom and garlic. The area is a little run down and the shops feature gaudily painted front windows and little sandwich board signs that sit in the sidewalk inviting customers to enter. There is a bicycle shop and, outside, nearly every available inch of space has been occupied by hanging frames, a rack with seats and accessories, tires of every size, and even 50 or 100 complete models ready to pedal away.
The street drifts past, and Sophia returns to mind like a stab of unfocused distress. I remember a brightly sunlit Sunday afternoon spent strolling with her, exploring each other and sampling the fare from these shops. Our conversation, a little awkward at first, had gradually warmed and gained intimacy; our bodies drew slowly closer to one another and, as we walked, our hands had brushed together and then clasped loosely, an expression of our growing familiarity. I grimace at the memory and my hand feels empty without her palm pressed against mine.
The streetcar trundles along and nears the city centre. Expensive boutiques begin to appear, sparsely at first and, then, standing shoulder to shoulder in awkward companionship. They proclaim themselves in unique façades and surreal window displays. The disparate music that emanates from each one produces the discordant soundtrack that enthralls and livens life in the city. Where shops formerly occupied the entire length of the block, the corners in this area are all occupied by a café or two, a restaurant and a bar or pub. I realise that I am missing Sophia terribly as the red and white striped awning of Antonio's restaurant comes into view and then away in the distance; one of our first 'romantic' dates had been there, shared in candle-lit unity over hearty lasagne, crusty, Tuscan bread and robust, red wine. We both got a little drunk that night – the fault of both the wine and our new-found closeness.
I really had no choice but to fall in love with Sophia. The qualities that drew me to her seemed also to make our match perfectly tuned until last night. Of course, I first noticed her physically: I was enchanted by her slim build and the understated grace of her movements; her large dark eyes seemed to radiate intelligence and a passionate interest in life around her. The first time she smiled at me, openly and sincerely, her full lips parted to reveal her neat, small teeth, she knocked me out. As we grew to know one another better, I found only more reasons to be enamoured of her. She carried with her a quiet spirituality, lending peacefulness to her demeanour; a useful foil for my own tendency to excitability. She revealed to me an imaginative and creative side, given to flights of fancy, that entertained and diverted my own mind which is sometimes too analytical. These things, and so many more, made me long for her companionship and, perhaps, to share our future together.
I emerge from my sad reflections to the reality that my corner is approaching. I move carefully toward the exit doors and arrive as the streetcar lolls to a stop. Still acutely feeling Sophia's absence, I descend from the streetcar, distractedly allowing my legs to lead the way. The stairs to the subway gape before me and I follow the stready steam of people into the humid galleries beneath the surface. The trip uptown is only a matter of five stops, so I linger by the doors of the train, listening to the calming rattle of the wheels on the track and watching the hypnotising tunnel lights flash by. Ten minutes later, the train rushes to a halt in Bay Station and, to the strange tune of their electonic chime, the doors part. I follow the well known path automatically, my hands thrust deep in my pockets. I pass under the sign indicating Bellair Avenue, through the vertical turnstyle and up the long flight of stairs to the fresh, coolness of the open air.
Only steps away, the gallery is lit up like a precocious Christmas tree on this late autumn evening. A large canvas in the front window, glowing with vibrant colours under brilliant, halogen beams, announces the show opening and draws curious looks from the passers-by. A small group of couples is standing in front of the entrance talking animately. I am conscious of my own solitude as I slip past them and enter the inviting warmth of the gallery's interior.
I am instantly engulfed by the infectious energy of the event; the canvases, densely filling the walls, are a delight to the senses. It is a show that I have awaited anxiously to see since I was first told of it's inception. The artist, one of Canada's greatest and only recently lost due to age and sickness, has captivated me since I was a boy, and influenced my concept of form and composition even while viewing the European masters.
My eye is distracted by movement and I turn to see the assistant director approaching me. He smiles broadly and extends his hand which I shake briefly and we exchange pleasant greetings. He thanks me for coming and immediately inquires after my previous two purchases. I answer enthusiastically and in glowing tones regarding the daily pleasure they give me. He beams back his delight at my response. He launches into a discourse on the merits of the current exhibit and I listen intently as he indicates some of the nearby paintings, highlighting their qualities. His emotional and technical descriptions only heighten my level of excitement at the prospect of the viewing. A few minutes later, we part with another handshake and I am free to be lost among the wondrous images that so enchant me.
Perhaps an hour later and after repeated meanderings, I stand captivated before the intimate poetry of a painting; a family of blue loons, so exquisitely formed that they appear to coddle one another beneath bright, folded wings for comfort and protection. The impression of nurturing warmth touches me deeply. I imagine my arm around Sophia's waist and a sensation of having her close to me forms; urgent, tangible and immediate. I experience a profound longing for her and a resolve forms in my mind; I will call her, I must.
I wind my way back through the gallery and my eyes flash over the paintings that I have already viewed. My boyish wonder at them is now made secondary to a new purpose. I greet the assistant director, thanking him again, and open the door to exit into the street. I begin to walk, directed toward Avenue Road, and then I stop short in surprise.
Sophia is standing on the corner looking at me and biting her lower lip. I walk slowly toward her filled with anxiety and doubt for the meaning of her presence but welling with other passions at the sight of her.
“I knew you'd be here,” she says and studies my face but then looks away, unsure.
“Yeah,” I answer, feeling like I want to reach out to her but afraid. “It's a beautiful show,” I offer, unconvincingly. I gaze at my shoes and rust-coloured leaves flutter by on the sidewalk, chased by the cool breeze.
“That's good,” she says. Her mouth stretches into a smile that quickly collapses on itself. “Listen,” she begins but then stops abruptly. She turns away and her face is shadowed with concern and sadness.
“Sophia,” I say and I can feel my emotions straining, looking for vent in my eyes. “I was way too severe last night. I shouldn't have been so hard on you.”
“No, I was being frivolous. I've been thinking about it all day. I think you were right.” She is looking into my face again. Her dark eyes are shining, wide with earnesty.
“I wasn't totally. I know that now. There was sense in what you were saying too.”
The barrier, formed by the previous night's anger, has been broken. We draw closer together.
“I'm sorry,” we both say on some mystic, simultaneous cue. It is followed by broad smiles of relief which scarcely conceal a cascade of released inner tension. I hold out my hand to her. She receives it and squeezes tightly.
“How 'bout a coffee? I mean, if you have time,” I ask her hopefully.
“I've got lots of time,” she affirms. Her hand is warm in mine.
We turn together in the direction of a familiar location. She laces her arm across mine and draws herself close, her head resting lightly on my shoulder amidst a flow of dark curls. Around us, the city throngs and hums with life but, for now, we are just two; Sophia and I.
It's good to be in love in the city.
december 2008
thanks for visiting.
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