Bloor Line, morning sunshine

South Asian woman, mid 50s, with curly shoulder length hair pulled back in loose ponytail, wearing fine, gold rimmed glasses, and black jacket. Her granddaughter sits bored, hanging off a pole, knees bumping together. The woman smiles at her page, fine where she is.

Feels Like Family, Sherryl Woods (Mira)

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Erik's gaze locked with hers. He couldn't seem to look away from that hint of vulnerability he saw once again in her eyes. "I guess we both just need to stick to our guns." "I suppose so," she said, though with surprisingly little enthusiasm.

There are only 26 underground parking spaces in her three storey building. She's occupied #18 since 1997. He's had #20 since 2003. #19 became vacant in 2005, left open for visitors. Through the gap, they rarely say anything, occasionally lifting their travel mugs to greet the day. Or, pausing long enough to wonder if the super will ever get around to fixing the faulty door on the shared washing machine. This weekend, #19 wasn't empty. Local plates. Soft leather briefcase in back. Diet coke can in the cup holder. Monday morning, the car was gone. They peered at one another over an oil stain, got in their cars, and waited for the garage door to roll open.