Saturday in Toronto. Hotter than hell. I'm drinking Cuba Libres with Alexis at a sidewalk cafe on College Street in the full glare of the afternoon sun. I'm beginning to squint, so I put on my sunglasses. In the reflection on my glasses, I know Alexis can watch the clouds slide from my left eye to disappear behind the bridge of my nose, then reappear in my right eye.
There's a guy sitting on a cement tree pot; he has spiked hair and a dog asleep at his feet. The pot holds a dead sapling and a bunch of cigarette butts. The guy smokes and asks people for money between drags. I look at people and imagine I'm them. I imagine that, for five minutes each, I've been everybody I've ever seen. Five minutes from now maybe I'll be sitting with my dog, looking for spare change, thinking I've always been this guy. I'll look across the street at a man with Ray Ban sunglasses sitting on a patio, drinking Cuba Libres with a beautiful woman, and I'll hate his guts.
"Another one please," I say to the waitress. She's wearing tight black shorts, an apron, a white T-shirt with a beer logo above her left breast. White tennis shoes. Her butt's hard and firm, her legs toned. My eyes flick between her legs and Alexis', comparing. Alexis has better legs, I think, smoother but not as tanned. The waitress is taller, though, more my height. Alexis watches me stare at her legs -- or rather, she watches drifting clouds stare at her legs.
"Well," I say finally, "we could go to the beach."
She doesn't say anything. Alexis is giving me the silent treatment again. I've been a bad boy. I'm biding my time, waiting for it to blow over. I'd rather not wheedle, so I peel off a few bills, leave them on the table, and get up.
"Come on if you're coming," I say. She gets up. If she was really mad she'd have left by now. I know she's looking for me to make up to her. I owe her, she's thinking. I'll make it up to her. We pass the waitress on the way out, who's just bringing me my next drink. "Thanks," I say over my shoulder, in response to her puzzled look. We leave her holding the drink and cross College. I give the guy with spiked hair a last look before we begin walking.
"It's pretty hot," I say casually, wrapping my arm around her waist. She's stiff and unresponsive. "Mmm," is all she says.
I can feel the twitch of her short sundress under my wrist as we walk. I know how that looks to anybody behind us. I raise the hem of her dress an inch or so by shifting my arm. She pulls away sharply and folds her arms over her chest.
We turn south on Spadina to walk through Chinatown. The place is crowded, noisy and full of strange odours. Produce stands are piled with fruits and vegetables, some familiar, some exotic, all of them being pawed by throngs of shoppers.
We stop at a stall piled with zucchini. I take Alex's hand and wrap it around one of them. She lets me, for a moment, before she pulls her hand back and continues down the street. I watch the sweltering breeze flutter her dress, and pick up a zucchini. I palm it and try to slip away, after Alexis. The elderly Chinese vendor nails me before I can melt into the crowd, so I shrug and hand over a dollar. She stuffs the zucchini in a bag and gives me a lopsided grimace and my change.
I catch up to Alexis at the corner of Dundas and Spadina. She's watching the men on a large red fire truck stopped at the light. It says "Pumper No. 8" on the side in fancy gold lettering. Four men in suspenders are watching Alexis watch them. She doesn't say anything as I slide my arm around her slim waist. We continue south.
At Queen Street we get on the eastbound streetcar for the beach. It's packed, and Alexis and I give up pushing through the crunch of bodies just short of the rear doors and grab the overhead rail. I'm right behind her, sandwiched between strangers. My chest presses into her back, and my pelvis rests against her rear. I grow hard at the feel of her. At Yonge Street, a whole throng of new people squeeze on board and the car becomes hopelessly claustrophobic and hot. Alexis strains to keep her balance, clutching the overhead rail with her right hand and the back of a seat with her left. She leans forward on her little high heel sandals, her back arching just a tad, her ass pushing into me. She isn't doing it intentionally, but she knows I'm enjoying it.
