Bathurst streetcar, fresh from a hair cut.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with curly brown hair and a full winter's beard, wearing a second-hand overcoat and red scarf, beige corduroys, cut off at the hem and brown leather shoes. For the record, on my car I counted 23 readers. Pretty bloody cool.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez (HarperCollins Canada)

Page 261:

While Aureliano Segundo ate with great bites, overcome by the anxiety of victory, The Elephant was slicing her meat with the art of a surgeon and eating it unhurriedly and even with a certain pleasure. She was gigantic and sturdy, but over her colossal form a tenderness of femininity prevailed and she had a face that was so beautiful, hands so fine and well cared for, and such an irresistible personal charm that when Aureliano Segundo saw her enter the house he commented in a low voice that he would have preferred to have the tourney in bed and not at that table.

"I'll make coffee," she said, jumping from the tossed white sheets at 7:36 on a Saturday morning. Yesterday she was doing rounds by now. This glorious morning, resplendent with cuddles (and cuddles lower still), was a vacation.

"I'll make coffee and warm some scones. And steak. Do you like steak?"

Yes, I like steak.

I raised my arms over my head and took in the room. In the light, well, it looked bright. Everything was white, save for a charcoal drawing on the wall. Dark, with a story.

"Shower if you want to. And feel free to check your email."

The CBC filled the apartment, the pleasure of living in an apartment with concrete walls. Meat hit the pan, its spit mixing with mine. God, I'd forgotten how much I loved steak. I rolled out of bed, into the clothes on the floor and stumbled towards the bathroom. No, the kitchen. This moment only comes once. I leaned over her shoulder -- "Smells good." -- and we shared that first lazy Saturday morning, Hello, we've met, kiss.

She smiled shyly, wielding a butcher's knife and let her head rest against my chest.