Ashbee & Son

Adrift on Queen West

The cool wind whipped about as I walked the trash-strewn streets of downtown Toronto. My mind was adrift, as were my feet. I thought I was walking along Queen West toward Spadina, but I must have made a hard-right turn and wandered a distance without realizing it. I took a pause like a rest in sheet music. I looked back. I was floating around near Chinatown. For a moment, I was fearful I might be losing my grip on reality; slipping into some form of premature senility. I was overly stressed. I'd barely slept the past week. Those were, I'm sure, factors at play. But to completely forget where I was or where I was going. That was something else. I shook my head, and even let bark an odd bit of primeval laughter. And I began to trek back toward Queen West.

It was a Friday. A week ago, my wife told me to leave. Those damn meetings with our lawyers ended just yesterday. I'd yet to pack a single sock. I was afraid to go home, for the consequences I'm sure would be dire. She'd have my things outside on the street if I'd not installed a contraption on the door on which to hang a pad lock. I fingered the key in my pocket. Soon I'd be using it to unlock the door and take all my things and put them into bags. I would leave my superb little home near Chester Station, never to live there with my wife and child again.

I felt a pang of sadness as my boot kicked water from an oily puddle. I got one or two passersby with it, and I heard someone shout something. I didn't turn around. I stopped in at Jimmy's Coffee and ordered something hot. A pale, skeletal man with a beard like Jerry Garcia's handed me a paper cup, and I took it to a table. I removed the lid, and the steam danced. I sipped at it. It was rich with a hint of toffee.

Ingrid hated random stops. If we were walking around the city, she would hate it if I suggested we push through the doors of an engrossing pub or café. Everything was an event, and everything was a mission. There was no time for anything but everything.

I scoffed under my breath, and I thought a young female wearing a denim jacket and skinny black jeans looked at me. I averted my eyes and sipped again.

Ingrid always had to have everything her way. The house had to look the way she wanted it to look. We had to buy a certain kind of car because anything besides a four-door sedan was outlandish. Money was always an issue. She claimed me intemperate. Sometimes, yes, I was intemperate. Sometimes life gets too boring, especially when you've a leash wrapping your neck.

I felt warmth climb my spine and my muscles tense.