Bloor Line, wistful.

Caucasian woman, late 40s, tall, with glasses, wearing a full-length tan leather jacket and matching Jaxon Cossack.

Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert (Penguin)

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It’s called “Il Gelato di San Crispino.” I’m not sure, but I think this might translate as “the ice cream of the crispy saint.” I tried a combination of the honey and the hazelnut. I came back later that same day for the grapefruit and the melon. Then, after dinner that same night, I walked all the way back over there one last time, just to sample a cup of the cinnamon-ginger.

Each trip to the frozen yoghurt shop is an exercise in patience. Her three daughters stare at the selections, lanky arms crossed over their thin waists, twisting their ankles over the edge of their flip flops, their bare backs a perfect shade of sunkissed against the bright stripes of bikini tops. One more summer and the eldest can drive them to town. For now, all she wants is her freshly pressed waffle cone, a mix of apple and Oreo, and a few solid minutes of quiet while they eat by the shoreline.