Monday, October 23, 2006

Spadina streetcar, 8:50 AM

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, short black hair with auburn streaks, angular glasses, striped tight sweater under brown army jacket, blue and pink striped scarf, finger placed gingerly as page marker, staring out window.

Gargoyles, Bill Gaston (Anansi)

About 77 pages in:

No one could say why Andy was there before the cement got poured, wedged between plywood forms a foot apart. The autopsy showed he wasn't drunk. The word suicide was never ventured, for an odd suicide it would've been, Andy jumping in even as he saw the truck coming.

What did you take in that made you stop reading? Back in the early 90s a young man from Ridley College checked into a seedy hotel on St. Paul Street, took some pills, and left his room, walking to the end of the hall. He turned around and broke into a sprint, back down the hall, into his room and through the window. Two minutes later I pushed my way through the crowd, unaware. His head was split open, his blood sticky on the bottom of my Converse sneaker.

Or perhaps you didn't like the way the gentleman beside you looked over your shoulder.

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