Family values

A younger woman with a tiny girl sat down across the aisle from them on the bus.

"Are they all yours?" she asked.

"Yes," the other woman replied. "It's easier than one, believe me."

"How old are they?"

"Five, four, two, ten months and we're having another one."

"Wow, and you look great. How far along?"

"Two or three months."

"Are you hoping for a girl?"

"I know not to hope for that. Just..."

"A healthy baby?"

"Yes."

"That's the kind of family I want," said the younger mother to her little daughter. "Yuck, that's dirty. Don't pick your nose. Use your Kleenex." Then she added to the other woman, "But I'm scared."

"It's easier than one," repeated the mother of four.

"I guess they look after each other?"

"They entertain each other. That's the key. You have to entertain her all the time."

"That's right."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Then she joked, "I can't help it anymore. It's like a sickness, I think."

"Are you married?"

"Of course."

"Not necessarily."

"Well, I am. But not by any church."

"Common-law?"

"Yes."

The fruit farmer

He had a trim grey beard, an average face, gentle eyes behind his glasses, and a faded beige cap on his buzzed head. He boarded the train in Chatham, a small city in farm country forty-five minutes east of Windsor. His eyes hovered for an instant in mine, then he passed to the back of the coach. That face seemed familiar. When I walked to the bathroom a few minutes later, he glanced up then quickly buried his eyes again in a brochure about ryegrass.

I had to transfer trains in London with a 75 minute stopover. Walking through the station I met the glance of an even more familiar face: a handsome, middle-aged woman with dark, shoulder-length hair. She wore stylish glasses, a yellow ski jacket and blue jeans. We studied each other for an instant, but I couldn't place her.

I stopped and turned in a circle to look for the clock. Then I saw the cute man in the cap approaching the woman in the yellow jacket. They smiled like a married couple, but instead of kissing she took his elbow gently in her hand. The gesture emanated a distinctive tenderness that exists between gay men and lesbian friends. I smiled inwardly and watched them leave the station.

I spent the next hour debating whether to go straight home or stop for the night at Club London. It draws friendly farmers from around Western Ontario, a different clientele than frequents the Toronto bathhouses. I wandered down Dundas Street in search of the gay bar, H2O, not realizing it had closed for good. On the way back past King Street, a big rainbow banner caught my attention. There I discovered Club 181, which opened since my last stop in London several years ago. I went in and had a couple rye and gingers, but didn't find anyone to talk to except the bartender.

Back at the station I continued my debate. I wasn't particularly horny, just stressed from a two-day visit with my parents. I haven't visited a bathhouse since last summer. Mere restlessness is not the best reason to go looking for casual sex, but I made up my mind and headed toward the ticket office to see whether my fare was transferable to a morning train.

Walking down the ramp, I met the lesbian in the yellow coat with her cute friend following two paces behind. This time he paused to look me up and down. Obviously he had only met his friend for a stopover. He would catch the train.

And so would I. ( Read more... )