There's a tiny ray of light desperately trying to break through the never-ending drab of Toronto's winter sky. I see a touch of beautiful blue, the smallest hint of it peeking out cautiously from behind a blanket of opaque grey.
I'm on the streetcar on my way to work, trying to ignore the sound of the woman on her cell phone behind me. Cantonese. Consonants.
Church Street. The streetcar grinds to a halt, the doors pop open, and I hear the ringing of the bells from majestic St. James Cathedral.
"For whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee. Ernest Hemingway," the driver intones over the streetcar's PA system. I smile.
We pass Victoria Street, screech to a stop at Yonge Street, "Yonge Street, home of the King subway." I watch as a new stream of passengers tiptoes through slush and mud, and up into the warm car.
Chug Chug Chug. Continuing. Cantonese. Consonants.
I ring the bell signalling my stop, "Bay Street, home of financial wizards and money moguls, streets paved with gold, known as Wall Street in New York..." the driver continues.
I get up, stand by the door, lean in as he whispers to me, "what are you? money mogul or financial wizard?"
"Frustrated writer?" I say, with a question in my voice.
He laughs, a nice, big belly laugh, "take care and have a wonderful day!" The sky clears, and fills with bright sun, its splendid azure lifting my spirits instantly. I'm smiling all the way to work.
Now did I mean him or me?