Toronto in the rain is like no other city—its tree canopy, its harbor, its skyline—not to mention its islands, out in the lake, locked in mist, accessible only by ferry—all these make it the most romantic city on earth.
Harry Baldwin had given me an overly large loft in the wedge-shaped Flatiron building where I could view the city’s changing moods.
It was a beautiful edifice, and built a decade before its counterpart in New York.
I had fallen in love with the ambience of its Victorian charm.
The building boasted an original Otis elevator, fireplaces, wood paneling, and in my loft, an iron spiral staircase to the bedroom with a huge walk-in wall safe I used as a closet.
But best of all, I had a commanding view of the maze of colorful streets, and sitting with a steaming mug of coffee on a rainy day was bliss—except for one thing.
I had no one to share my paradise.
I could feel myself slipping into melancholy. But I was rescued by music playing on my Sonos in the background—a sudden arpeggio of piano keys that sprinkled bright, sharp notes throughout the room, effectively banishing the mood.
So, today, I would not let the mist in—not let the drizzly day pervade my Irish soul and bring me to tears.
The gray world outside might try to wrap me in its sad music, in bars and staves of rainy lines, but thankfully, I have my own inward music—and the promise of a dream.
I’ve caught a glimpse of my lady in the mist—and though unclear, I can sense she’s near. So, brooding melancholy can drench me in tear circles for all I care.
There. I said it, and feel better—and to bolster my spirits further, I’ll grab my umbrella and walk in the rain.
The grandfather clock chimes three on my way out—not too late, but already the rain has darkened the day and I’m determined to rescue what’s left.
I head to the small street filled with private art galleries where I love to wander in another world.
The splashing pavements are filled with passersby, huddling beneath colorful umbrellas—and the bubbling streets are already raising my spirits.
Getting outside was a good choice.
I spend hours in a painted world of vibrant colors until I feel pleasantly tired and surprisingly, famished. Then, it occurs to me, I haven’t eaten lunch.
As I’m pondering which café to choose, a woman emerges from a nearby gallery, who appears identical to the woman in my dream.
Spellbound, I follow her, at a discreet distance, of course, and see her enter a small patisserie I often frequent myself.
She takes a window seat and I sit opposite her, pretending interest in the rain and trying hard not to stare.
She takes out a pocketbook and begins to read, so I mirror her actions, retrieving my copy of Verlaine’s poems that I always carry in my coat pocket.
I heard a subdued voice whisper and realize my dream woman is speaking to me.
“You read Verlaine too—are you French?”
“No,” I smile. “I love Verlaine and read him in the original because I’m afraid the poetry is what gets lost in the translation.”
“My feelings exactly,” she laughs.
“I should introduce myself—I’m Paul Bennett.”
“Bliss Carmichael,” she replies.
“Do you mind if I ask which poem you’re reading?” she asks.
“It’s a short poem called Twilight of a Mystical Evening—quite appropriate too, under the circumstances.”
“Ah yes,” she grins. “It is l’heure bleu, although the sun is hiding tonight.”
“May I ask what poem you’re reading?”
Her book is lying face down on the table. She turns it over and smiles, “It seems we have something mystical in common.”
The page is turned down to the same poem I’m reading. She gestures to the empty chair before her, “Since we’re on the same page, why don’t you join me?”
I take the vacant seat facing her.
The waitress drops our coffees and when she’s gone Bliss whispers conspiratorially, “I was wondering when we’d meet.”
My jaw drops, “You too?”
“The same dream,” she laughs, “walking in the mist.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Not really,” she says, “these things happen to me all the time.”
“Well, it’s never happened to me before,” I huff.
“Yes, but then, you’re a mortal.”
I’m shocked again—my eyes widen until I feel like a character out of Orphan Annie.
“Then, you must be a witch,” I say.
“No, worse. I’m a goddess.”
Just my luck. I meet the girl of my dreams, and she turns out to be loony.
But there's something about her that intrigues yet terrifies me. She has a presence about her that makes me believe what she says...
And it scares the hell right out of me because I'm drawn to her but my common sense tells me I should run away.
Where is Life taking me? I muse, and although I'm scared, I stay.
