Bright Yellow

Written 54-K15 [2023-05-11], Edited 54-K15 [2023-05-11]

Image credit: Twitter Twemoji

“Would you buy one of these?” asked Ada, who was holding a bright yellow notebook with golden cursive text on the cover. The title was some kind of feel-good, self-affirming claptrap.

“I’m not really the target demographic,” I said. “It’s too…”

“Feminine?” Ada suggested.

“I was going to call it flamboyant,” I said.

“I wouldn’t call it flamboyant, it’s feminine,” she said.

“Well okay then,” I said.

We started to walk away from the notebook section of the bookstore to inspect the toy section, the bedding section, the cafe section, the greeting card section, and the office supplies section. As I walked, my rain-soaked backpack was heavy with delicious cargo: cookies of various flavours, cans of cider, and a pack of frozen dumplings.

But my legs could not find rest just yet. Not until we found some free chairs.

Once we found the book section of the bookstore, we finally found an area where people could sit down and read. All five of the chairs in the multi-story bookstore were occupied. The occupants of the seats were staring at their phones. The people were almost glued to their seats and phones, all parts of a sedentary whole.

So we picked some books from the shelves and made our way to the checkout. Contrary to the advice of schoolteachers everywhere, I judged the books by their covers and picked one that had a mess of words on the front. No images of material objects, only great typography. The book was sure to be dense and imposing, or at least give that impression to my Instagram followers.

Ada picked a book that might as well had been pulled from an ancient swamp, it depicted soil and rusting iron.

“What’s that, some kind of shovel?” I asked.

“I’d call it a spade, wouldn’t you?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Only after nitpicking the taxonomy of digging tools for twenty minutes.” I said.

Outside the bookstore, under a cold nighttime drizzle, I placed the book I found into my backpack.

“Will the truth about the truth be safe from your frozen dumplings?” asked Ada.

“Well, it’s my only hope,” I said, although the bag had been drenched before we’d even stepped outside. I placed my book in container, adding another component to the system attached to me.

We wandered the streets of downtown Toronto, trying to find a refuge from the rain and a departure from the darkness. But the cafes were either closing or fully occupied, and only Union station remained.

Once I was home, I opened my backpack and pulled out its contents, letting the bag vomit its day of meals right onto my couch. Perhaps not the wisest move, as my once-frozen dumplings had melted and merged into a congealed mass. Neither freezing cold nor boiling heat could return my dinner to what it once was, it would end its existence as a unified asymmetric blob. Still tasted good though.