Waiting for a friend on a street-side rooftop patio after a long day at work. The tops of cars, buses and people stride by, going to and fro. The summer heat beats down on my head, hair sticking to my forehead. Sipping the overly sweet cocktail in a top-heavy stemmed glass. The wobble of this fake wood patio table threatens to throw the drink with each shift of my elbow. The hint of elderflower promised by the seasonal menu’s description disappears behind the simple syrups melding with the furiously melting ice under the unblinking eye of Toronto’s sun.

I’m crowded into this corner facing out to the other patrons, watching, listening, absorbing. An older couple to my back right sit barely saying a word to one another; without animosity, their silence is clearly a comfort to them both, as I hear their weightless exhales and refreshing sighs after taking a sip of their chosen beverage—no stemware on their table; I envy that.

Another lone diner awaits their companion. Yet as I sit contentedly in my lonesome, he watches the second pint of Guinness he’s ordered sweat, losing its head waiting to be drunk by their mysterious guest. He bounces his knee and eyes the entrance across the terrace with some anxious anticipation.

A group of friends, mid-twenties to thirties, discuss their favourite tweets and South Park quotes. Their relation to one another is not easy to define as they discuss anything and everything but their responsibilities. Their table is littered corner to corner with small plates and appetizers, their pitcher of sangria half-drunk, but the clutter of extra glasses suggests a far wetter palette thus far.

Farthest from my seat may be these Zillennials’ collective destiny. A ruckus of laughter, heated discussion and clatter echoes from the confines of a four-seater table hosting six riotous middle-aged partiers. Their energy is chaotic. They boisterously address their waiter, each other, and whatever sorry soul on the other end of a phone conversation, missing out on all the fun. My eye line can’t dissect whatever lay waste on their table, though I don’t fear my imagination to be too far from the truth.

Directly in front of me is a two-seater where, appropriately, two women sit. With the atmosphere and sound waves clogged by these larger parties, any chance of gleaning their conversation is a nonstarter. I imagine from their luscious hair and stylish garb that they’re going on about their lavish lives.

My overalls were a genius choice this morning when the air had less heft, but now I feel their weight. My back is slick with sweat; I can feel a drip slip from the bottom of my trousers to below my ankle. If it weren’t for the unreliable dome misused for my drink, I might have used the sweat of the glass to cool my neck. Alas, no chance that decision wouldn’t end with sticky-sweet liquor soaking my back further.

Toronto, Bloor West Village, 2026