So, today I can’t help but think of the passionate love affair that sprang up between me and guy who works at the Portuguese chicken place across from the YMCA. OK it was totally in my imagination, sill, it was hot. I’ve written him a letter, you know to say farewell and that we shall always have College and Dovercourt. I think I am going to paste it on his shop window the night before I leave for Montreal.

Dear Portuguese Chicken Guy,

I hear that you are a Jehovah’s Witness and that you attend Kingdom Hall once a week. While I don’t understand your “religion” I have to admit that I do enjoy seeing you dressed up in a suit on a weekly basis when I walk by your “church” bound for the YMCA. Your dedication to that organization must be your only flaw, because other than that you are, in a word, perfection.

The evidence of my burning passion is abundant. Sitting on the College streetcar with my hand pressed up against the glass, I gaze into your shop as I sail by silently with 40 others. I linger outside your window a little when I am on my way to some College St. attraction. I know you like to flirt and when I say that I like the sauce on the chicken to be like me, hot and sweet, I am sure you know that’s a hint. If all that evidence isn’t enough, surely you have noticed the flame in my eyes when I watch you slather breasts and thighs in the sauce of my choosing.

Alas, how would I stand out in your mind when neighbourhood girls and women from Ossington to Landsdowne flock to your establishment? And they are not coming for the chicken, although it is succulent to be sure. You are the subject of many daydreams and the topic of several naughty conversations. You cause giggles and smiles and women everywhere long to know what is behind those deep brown eyes of yours. It is clear from your sly smile that you are a bad man, so I guess the JW’s will keep you on the straight path, but should you stray, oh please stray in my direction. You don’t even need to give me free chicken, although, that would be the icing on the cake that is your rock solid body.

The universal desire for you may have something to do with clear indications that the good looks run in the family. A biological imperative, if you will. I say this because, frankly, even your dad is hot. I once asked him if I could marry into the family, you know, for the chicken. He just laughed, something tells me that he gets the offer on a regular basis.

Portuguese Chicken Guy, we could live together in harmony in your native Brazil. We could watch the sun set over Copacabana Beach, we could behold the giant illuminated Jesus hovering in the night sky, and we could linger in bed as the sun’s golden rays first touch Sugarloaf Mountain. The only river in Rio De Janeiro will be the river of love that passes between us.

I will soon be leaving Toronto to live in another city. But my passions will remain here with you, on the north side of College, a little bit east of Dovercourt, across from the YMCA.

Yours,

Debbie
- posted by Debbie @ 3:44 PM