Yesterday, I went down to a butcher in Leslieville to buy some sausages for dinner. It was probably around 6:00, and although it was dark and rainy, it was mild out, which seemed to give the evening a hazy, street-lit softness.
At this point in day the neighbourhood takes on a different texture. Some of the aggression seems to slip away, and a weary contentment settles over the area. On the streetcars, people return home from work, having survived the daily battles. With half-smiles on their faces they look out the streaked windows, thinking about what they’ll have for dinner or what story their boy might return home from school with.
Such a mild rain makes us feel safe, like we’ve been out in a potentially adversarial world, but one that was merely a trifle inconvenient and not at all predatory. It makes the idea of returning home just a little bit more attractive, and the unspoken gratitude we share for our lives is written in our eyes.
At this time in the day, you can see the interior of things.
All the stores and homes that lined Queen Street were lit from the inside. Glowing like Japanese lanterns, the lives that inhabited them became visible.
At Pulp Kitchen, through the condensation on the window, a woman listened on a phone. She nodded her head twice, and then the biggest, most spontaneous grin broke out on her face.
In an upstairs apartment, a partial glimpse of a woman in a t-shirt stirring something on a stove.
A man steps out of his apartment. His dog, tail wagging, is so happy to see his master, to go for a walk, even in the rain. “Come on, Fergus, let’s go play some fetch!” And the two of them bound down the sidewalk toward the park.
On the second floor, through fogged windows, shadows moving in tandem. Dance classes.
A woman practices piano, three candles burning in her window.
Life restoring itself after the demands of the day.