Sitting on Bloor drinking tea = me. (so I wasn't sitting 'right' on Bloor, but inside a corporate monster drinking tea - not because I wanted to, but because I was dying from the heat)
A comfy over stuffed wish-I-owned-you kind of chair was my throne, and at first the only view I had when I looked up from my New Yorker journal (thanks for that) was a unreadable kind of 'dude' guy who was unbuttoned (and I am SURE it was unintentional). Keeping my eyes cast down to avoid package/eye contact I failed to notice his departure and the capturing of the coveted overstuffed toadstool by a frail young man who was clutching a book and wearing all dark morose looking garb. It wasn't "I am a goth on Bloor and Bathurst-teen" wear, so much as it was "I might work at a bookstore, be a student or plow through my boss's travel itineraries as a personal assistance" kind of wear.
But, it wasn't all of this speculation that has forced me to pull over on my walk home and write this down....it was that he started crying.
Have you ever felt that you were looking at your insides? Well, I sure did today. Not to sound totally navel-gazing-self-reflective-bordering on being related to our anti-hero Narcissus, but holy(tofu)cow! There I was, right there, crying unashamed in the middle of this (horror) Starbucks.
I asked. After a mile worth of contemplation. I asked:
Are you okay?
Yes, it is fine.
And than he rose, I watched him walk away from the chair, out the door and into the street. He leaned against the building across the road. I guess I am doing that right now.