He’s interesting and handsome looking, like somebody you might have see on TV. He’s probably about 20 years too old for her, but it’s clear from the way she looks at him that she doesn’t’ care. Every day they sit together at The Dark Horse. She snuggles against him with her café au lait, while he, sipping his espresso, works on the crossword puzzle. Whenever he fills in a difficult passage, her eyes become moist and adoring.
Walking east along Queen Street they lean into one another. His hands are in his pockets. She, with her head down, smiles, her hands encircling his arm. They look like the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. In fact, it’s entirely possible that they’re so self-consciously in love that they’re trying to conjure that image in the minds of people passing by. She looks up at him, her eyes just a little uncertain, vulnerable, “ you weren’t chipper the other night, normally you’re chipper. Is everything alright?”
Coming west on the street are two teenaged boys, both tricked out gangster style. Low riding jeans, tilted ball caps and oversized NFL jackets, they swing their shoulders from side to side when they walk, as if hoping to bump into somebody and start a fight.
The taller of the two boys is speaking, “Yeah, and so I finally heard back from eHarmony, and apparently there’s no fucking match for me. They say this happens to about 5% of their customers and that it has nothing to do with me—just a freak thing. They’re going to give me my money back, and keep my file in the system, but man, I don’t know.”
The other guy, far from laughing as I expected, nodded his head, “that’s a drag, dude, but I’m sure the right one will turn up. You’re a great guy, you just hang in there,” and then with a look of sincere concern on his face, he gently punched his friend in the arm.