Huff, huff, huff, huff. Candice ran as fast as she could toward a TTC bus approaching a shelter in the distance. She ran past Chanaman Roti Stand, the Rastas pausing their meal of corn bread and pepper sauce to watch her whiz by . . .
“Red dilled tomatoes for breakfast? ”
My grandfather’s head hovered over the opening of a large glass pickling jar as he inhaled his favourite Russian delicacy. Dilled green tomatoes were normal, but red seemed to me to be eccentric . . .
Rosa knows Teresa is the pretty one: she has more problems. Today it’s the bath. Water running, Rosa knows Teresa will be pouring in some of the red bubble bath that smells like raspberries her sister always finds enough money for when it’s on sale . . .
Ella can’t be bought with Cracker Jacks and Coke. Itching in her woollen tights and longing to peel them off, unbuckle her Lady Oxfords and throw the whole lot of Sunday clothes down down down on the conductor’s head, she refuses to touch Mother’s peace offerings . . .