I was eating a Tim Hortons doughnut. 
In shorts, and a t-shirt, and a hockey stick.
And a backpack, hockey bag, and sneakers.
Flourescent sneakers.
It was snowing.  It was snowing very hard.
I was not cold.

I could see the castle built for the wonderful woman who bankrupted the blasphemous businessman.
I could see the tour buses emptied of their nitrogen-nylon-marshmallow men idling in the parking lot that should be a park.
I could see the marshmallow men utilizing their ipads and iphones and i-things and Nikons in their pillow parkas while they chanted curses of the cold.
I was not cold. 

The man on the bike was not cold. 
The man on the bike wore shorts and a t-shirt and a helmet but he was not cold.
The man on the bike was not on his bike anymore.  He was in my way.
The man on the bike said, “Sorry, you go ahead.”
I said, “No, sorry, you go.”
Bike man said, “No, please, you go.”
I moved aside.
Bike man moved aside.
“My fault. You go.” I said.
“No, sorry, my fault.  Please. You go.”
I went.
The marshmallow men were staring at us.
My doughnut was cold.
I was not cold.
I was Canadian.
Terribly, dreadfully, Canadian.