I had seen A at a gallery earlier in the day. He was a stranger, but was so well dressed that I couldn’t help checking him out. That evening I found myself a bit lost in the city, having arrived at the Carlton Cinema too late to see a movie. I wandered to This Ain’t The Rosedale Library on Church Street, which is always open later than I expect. Miraculously, the stranger was there, too, leafing through art magazines and wearing pale cowboy boots and a blazer with silvery threads. I couldn’t help myself this time, and interrupted his reading to comment on what a great look he had. He repaid the compliment and we began chatting. He spoke with a Polish accent, so I told him about an exhibition I was to have in Krakow. Three sentences later we realized we had a mutual friend in that city, who, upon learning that A was travelling Toronto-wards, told A that he had to look me up. Incredibly we had met, instead, through a chance flirtation. We left the bookstore and on the street A issued a single, cinematic tear, moved by the impossibility of encountering each other this way.