Friday night was our date night. Virginia was working two jobs to put me through doctoral studies at St. Michael’s College in Toronto. We were virtually hand-to-mouth poor, but on Friday night we splurged. We routinely rendezvoused at our one bedroom apartment at Steeles and Bathhurst and then headed to Swiss Chalet for their rotisserie roasted chicken sandwich, the cheapest thing on the menu. After a long hot mid-summer work week we gave ourselves permission to crash. We were about to leave —the key was in the door, when the phone rang. I remember looking at Virginia, as if to say, “Do we have to get that?” Her face said without words, “Might as well.” I somewhat begrudgingly got to the phone on the fourth ring.
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