They were both beautiful and pristine from a distance. Like carnivals. Lucite orbs left by Extraterrestrials Who Liked to Shop, space oysters filled with the pearls of 1970 tat luring Aquarians away from the Eaton Centre. And there he was, sheep-skinned against the Toronto December, a Hoser-McCleod without his horse searching out her Christmas gift. He peered into each ball as if it were his future and decided that the mood ring in gold plate was the quickest way to get laid on Christmas Eve. But the choice was telling: Sure he’d do Mary, but he’d be thinking about Rhoda. Image: Citatus on Flickr.
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