Late fall on a slow day. The light through the branches cast dancing shadows on the street. Handsome Victorian houses with white painted exteriors and well-adorned windows face the sidewalk.
My name is Anne. I am here to take up the position of teacher at St. Andrews Academy. Toronto is exciting with its crowded houses and packed streets, which are so different from the wind swept grassy landings of PEI.
The social committee is having a coniption fit. In the society pages an actress is claiming she and Prince Harry are ‘just friends’ but no one remembers who asked. The society girls of Toronto were all excited for some new writer — it seems he was days away from committing suicide when he chose to write and now all middle age women who were free are clamoring over him.
Mr. Gilbert Fry, my friend from PEI, warned me about Toronto men. Some were vain and only used women socially for their business ambitions. Beyond my quiet block, Elon Musk the great Canadian inventor of the moment, was cruising up and down the street in his electric vehicle. The corporate elites, which is a kind thing to call bored office managers with a bit of authority, had just donated to Hillary Clinton’s campaign. While our own poor young Prime Minister was taking suggestion slips for $3 a pop to raise money.
But every cosmo-light wanted to distance themselves from a Trade Minister who told the Europeans off by saying we were more European. Ever fearful of what their NYC relatives would think they plowed money into Hillary’s campaign, which made it worse because now we weren’t just insane but a ‘credible threat’.
On the far-side of town they were readying to organize the ‘poor black’ man whose kids must shop from China though they scored well on provincial tests. It was being done through social media, so no one in Toronto proper knew what the hell was going on, though they ‘can hear things’.