They sat at their favourite table in the happening, beautiful restaurant at Yonge and Summerhill. They laughed, petted each other adoringly and toasted their mutual fabulousness.

Half way through their main course, a woman burst through the front door of the restaurant, pushed angrily passed the snooty maitre d’ and ran screaming toward the couple.

‘You crazy son of a bitch. This is the last time, I tell you. You have done this too many times, do you think I am blind, do you think I am crazy. How could you, you horrible, mean spirited, selfish pig? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.’ She slammed her fist on the table, the wine spilled flooding the Sole Almandine as she  ran screaming out the door.

At this point, as much as we are shy, unassuming Canadians, there was not a sound in the restaurant as all eyes turned to the couple left behind. They did not flee in embarrassment, did not blush or even blink. In the cruel way that life can find the humiliated and hurt further humiliate and hurt themselves and the nasty and unkind appear unscathed – they looked  at each other and said “Well, that could have been a lot worse”.

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