One of my favourite memories of living in this city involves a streetcar.
When we're together, my husband and I are like children. We joke and play and talk in our secret language. We've even been known to sword fight in toy stores.
One summer night a couple of years ago, we were riding our bikes home. It was late and the streets were empty. Except for this one streetcar. At first, it was casual. Like most Torontonians, we acted like we didn't see each other. But for us kids, this situation was too tempting to resist.
We kept meeting it at the lights but, as soon as the light changed, we were off. Racing. Racing the streetcar, racing each other. I was even wearing stilettos but that didn't stop me. I was pumping hard and flying and laughing. I felt so free.
This went on for several blocks. I was breathless. The driver even opened his door and cheered me on as we raced alongside.
I don't remember who won -- him, me or the streetcar.
All I remember is that when it was over, the driver rang his bell and we waved and watched as he glided away.