Monday, March 7, 2005


There's a little slip of paper atop an antique wooden coffee table in the lobby of a hotel in downtown Toronto - it says, simply: It's all for you.

The note's author - a diminutive man in an outmoded suit - sits relaxed at home in an armchair 3,366 kilometers away in Vancouver. He's got a Martini in one hand and a television remote in the other. He's smiling but he's not watching anything funny. In fact, he's not watching anything at all because his eyes are closed.

The note's reader is a plump, worried woman in an unshapely floral print dress. She worries because she feels she isn't living up to her potential, she's plump because she eats when she's worried, and she's wearing an unshapely floral print dress because her unshapely striped dress is in the suitcase recently lost by the airline.

The woman reads the note and turns it over in her fleshy hand expecting to find more on the other side. But there is nothing.

Simultaneously, the author of said note drains the last of his Martini past his lips, then tips it up once more expecting to find one more drop of gin and vermouth. But there is nothing.

Both parties are perturbed, and think: Can that really be all there is?

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