Friday

After work on Friday I went to a beer hall with Jane for some wings and draft. We strolled up from the office and wound our way into Kensington Market, where Jane was something of an habitué, finally entering a dive that resembled a Legion Hall and settled ourselves at a table near the back.

Jane sported a mane of hair dyed black with streaks of purple and crimson. Her usual attire was black leggings, a short black skirt, black top and a black sweater to bring it all together. With her pale skin, black eye make-up and nail polish she was the most unlikely accountant in the city.

It goes without saying that I completely adored her, and fell under her quirky spell soon after we met. Jane ordered us a small order of wings with extra hot sauce and reminded me that we couldn’t linger, as she had to be home before 7.

Jane was the mother of a 5 year-old daughter—Bethany—and shared her home with a niece who was a student at the U of T. A free spirit with an eye for real estate, she lived in the Annex in a narrow townhouse north of Bloor Street. Her unofficial family included me, some neighbours, a few single-moms, and a smattering of musicians from her “other life” as a singer. Details about Bethany’s father were sketchy, but since Jane never mentioned a name I didn’t press for details. I figured that she would tell me one day, when the time was right.

Bethany spent each afternoon with Sra. Cabral, a neighbour who spoke fractured English and also presented in black from head to toe. “She asked me once if my husband was dead,” said Jane, “or had my mother or father died within the last year. She’s a happy widow, you know, so we’re not that different. We both wear widow’s weeds and we’re both faking it.”

I passed on an invitation to supper—but made sure to get a rain check—and then hiked home using a combination of streetcar and subway.

I hated having nothing to do on a Friday night. I spent the rest of the evening surfing the net, and touring the television channels.

Thus endeth the lesson.