A Sunday Kind of Love Part 2
I'm in Madge’s Wonderbar Cafe—a bit of flotsam and jetsam Time washed up and forgot on a downtown Toronto street.
I never see anybody walk into the café with a laptop, I-pad or even a smart phone. It would seem almost sacrilegious, and I’m sure Madge wouldn’t permit it.
The ambience is Thirties or Forties—Gatsby and Hemingway, and Zelda with a cigarette holder staring out at the rainy street—at least she would be doing that today.
It’s one of those misty April days when the world seems to fade away, leaving you alone with your thoughts, the Thirties tunes, and a hazy, darkened street.
I often bring along a notepad and jot down some thoughts, especially on days like today when the foggy street is slowly drifting down towards the bay, with the mist and the fog carrying me away.
“Are you a writer?”
The girl in the booth opposite is looking at me, and I assume she’s talking to me.
“Excuse me, did you say something?”
She nods and dreamily blows some blue cigarette smoke up towards the ceiling.
Oh, did I tell you? Madge lets people smoke in here—I don’t know why, and she never gets hassled about it either.
“I asked if you were a writer,” the girl says in a soft drawl, that’s not quite southern, but not quite Canadian either.
“No,” I reply sheepishly, “unless you count pre-published ramblings and the occasional scholarly article.”
“You’re from the University—students drop in now and then.”
“I’m not a student,” I tell her.
I get that a lot—I look younger than my years, and I sense in this case, it’s a liability.
She inhales lazily, sizing me up as she does. “Do you keep a journal?”
I colour, “Something like that—it’s more like random thoughts,” I explain.
She’s quite beautiful—long, honey coloured hair, a soft red v-neck sweater and matching lipstick.
Okay, I left out her legs—deliberately, I guess—I tried not to notice them tilted elegantly to the side beneath her beige skirt.
There’s a hint of a smirk on her face and I realize I failed the test. It’s like telling yourself not to look, and of course, you do.
Madge comes by and drops a coffee. “By the way, Hon—that creep’s gone. I’ll call you a cab later, if you want.”
“Thanks, Madge, but I’ll be fine.”
When she’s gone, I can’t resist asking, “has someone been bothering you, Miss?”
She looks amused as if her younger brother offered to defend her honour.
“It’s Cyn, and I’m okay, but thanks for asking.”
“You’re welcome—and by the way, I’m Paul—Paul Sanders.”
“Nice to meet you, Paul,” she says in a strange, singsong voice that borders on mocking.
I’m definitely striking out with this one. Welcome to my world, I muse.
A song comes on the phonograph and she gets this far away look in her eyes. I feel myself drawn to her as if being pulled into her world.
I see a tall building. She lives in the penthouse with a view of the lake. I can hear a distant foghorn—and then suddenly, the scene dissolves, and I’m back in the café staring at her lovely face.
This is definitely not going to be an ordinary day.