The Bay Street Diaries

Tatiana - Dutch-African American, Tom Ford Yellow-Tinted Glasses, Banker

“Let me just tell you, you have the most beautiful body,” he says nonchalantly from the hotel bed. Rubber strewn throughout the room.  

I am disheveled. Hair a mess. Completely naked. Not even a bra to my name, as I had worn my dress braless the night before.  

He was from New York. An investment banker working with a European bank. We had met at a popular patio during TIFF. His brother had accidentally burnt a hole in my friend’s dress with a cigarette, and thus insisted on buying us drinks. We were drunk, and looking to be entertained. I spoke to him for hours I imagine. He was irresistibly charming. And educated. And impeccably dressed. He went to two Ivy Leagues, and was now a banker. And he had just bought a house in Brooklyn.  

With his Swedish fiancé.  

He was in Toronto for his bachelor party. He had wanted to take the “boys” somewhere they had never been before. He didn’t want to trash it up at a strip club, and preferred a classier outing.   I asked about his fiancé. When the wedding was, where it was. I was genuinely interested. She worked at the UN. They were marrying at a chateau in Switzerland. An ideal situation, life. And I was more than entertained with the casual conversation.  

And then, blank.

I don’t remember a single thing. One gin and tonic too many, and all that is left is a brief memory of calling my boyfriend quietly from a strange washroom. Swearing up and down that I was home safely in bed. He said he didn’t believe me; I sounded weird. I said I was simply sick. A half-truth; in the mind I suppose.  

We wake up.

It is 9:30am, and I begin to scramble. His flight to New York departs at 11am, yet he doesn't seem concerned.   As he showers, I gather my things, and check his suit labels. I conclude that is a Ford fan. Then, panic ensues. I had arrived with a mini-clutch in hand, sporting a strapless boned party dress, seamless thong and stilettos.

I cannot find my dress.   He makes a few calls, and we discover that a groomsman mistook my dress for his slacks in the early morning while quickly gathering his things. He flew out of Toronto at 7am. My dress was now in Rhode Island. I stood standing there barefoot, grasping my chest. Naked and ashamed.  

“You look a lot like my fiancé.” I glance back at him, displaying none of my felt emotion. I want to sob as chills stiffen my spine. “Will she ever find out,” I blatantly ask. “No one will rat me out.” He shrugs and laughs.

Laughs.  

I walk to the door, and I look back.

We exchange a twisted smile.

“Good luck with that. It was lovely to meet you,” I speak confidently as I grab the tainted door handle.

“Likewise. We’ll get your dress back to you too.”  

Alas, I conclude, why pay at a strip club, when you can get that and more for free.  

I sport Lotto soccer shorts, nude stilettos and a turquoise tee back to my condo.

I quickly change. I sprint to confession.   Although I am a bad person, I pray to God, in my most religious moment, that he doesn’t curse me with a husband like NY banker boy after all that I’ve done.  

Amen.