Spadina Station, in line, looped twice around.

Black man, early 20s, wearing a black fleece and red scarf, a brown leather bag slung across his chest, a row of TTC subway buttons running the length of the strap: subway sonnet.

The Edible Woman, Margaret Atwood (Emblem)

Page 153:

When she went into the room he was doing the pillowcase. He seemed more relaxed: he was ironing with a long easy sweeping motion instead of the exact staccato strokes he had been using on the blouse. He looked up at her as she came in.

"I suppose you're wondering what happened to the mirror," he said.

"Well..."

"I smashed it. Last week. With the frying-pan."

"Oh," she said.

Last night, he made pancakes for dinner. He flipped each one with precision and care, standing over the cast iron pan seasoned with thirty years of Mother's lamb chops, fast fry steaks, eggs over-easy -- and pancakes. Blueberry, banana, corn and buckwheat, the slow rise of bubbles creeping to the edges, crisp and ruffled, an eight-year-old sleepy boy sitting hungry at the kitchen table, his tiny hands gripping a charred strip of bacon.

***

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