Union Station, waiting for Montreal to arrive

Black man, early 30s, wearing dark blue jeans, brown leather shoes and a black fleece with loose American Apparel scarf wrapped around his neck. He looks up often, squinting at the clock, then back to his magazine. His legs are crossed at the ankle, feet bouncing.

Geist 66, Fall 2007 (The Geist Foundation)

Page 70:

From "American Soul" by Sheila Heti.

Roy says, "Do you think it is right--six years? For a wife not to sleep with a man? No, she is not my soulmate. My soulmate I met two years ago. God forgives me for it, I think. God understands. But this lady does not know that I believe she is my soulmate. I do not think my wife thinks I am her soulmate. She has never said anything about it. Your soulmate is the one that misses you."

His feet stop rocking. He slips the magazine inside a bookstore bag, stands and stretches, the bottom of his fleece rising to reveal a curl of hair. He lowers his arms quickly, shoves his hands in his pockets, looks at a spot on the ground and crumples his brow as if only just remembering something. No, realizing something. No. Figuring something out.