Pippin and I arranged to meet in the Toronto Reference Library, a building both daunting with its magnificent architecture yet also familiar through repeated visits.
We chatted about many things, but what I remember most is what she said about her husband, Greg.
Greg won her heart, she said, by draping a white cloth napkin over his hand, then pulling on its corners to fashion a rabbit. I had to admit this sounded quite charming. She then proceeded to show me how to do it myself.
In hindsight, I might have taken this as a hint, but I was, in the moment, oblivious.
She then told me that Greg was at a place called Wet’n’Wild Toronto. There, one can slide into pools of water — the slides being of various configurations designed to heighten the excitement and pleasure of using them.
She told me that he could easily spend the day there, using a tone that suggested a childishness in Greg that she found tiring.
This hint was a little more obvious, but still, I only just perceived it.
Pippin then suggested that she read me my fortune through the use of tarot cards. I was taken aback since I have never believed in mysticism, and I began to doubt her character. But I was soon shaken out of these thoughts.
“We need to do it some place more private. Let’s go to my hotel room,” she said.
It finally dawned upon me that Pippin was proposing an infidelity. But I could not bring myself to acquiesce. By that time I knew something of her husband — his name, his character. To cuckold him would have been too appalling.
I politely begged off with the pretense that I would prefer not to have my fortune known. As I write these words, though, I must admit to having regrets.
We took our leave much the same as the first time, with a shy sort of reluctance.
Still, I do have her electronic mail address, and may yet continue to correspond with Pippin. She is, after all, the closest thing I have to a friend in this bewildering century.