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Isn't it romantic? 2004-04-21 - 9:48 a.m. I used to take the bus to my old job. This involved walking or bussing to the main line along which the buses that went across the river travelled. Sometimes I�d wait at the Rideau Centre, sometimes at the next stop which was right in front of the Parliament buildings. One fine spring morning I was waiting in the warm sunshine when I noticed a folded piece of paper stuck in the wrought-iron fence that borders Parliament Hill. It didn�t look like trash; it was folded carefully and obviously deliberately stuck there. I glanced around, curious. No one was watching that I could see. Never let it be said that I am daunted by the prospect of looking foolish. Or by potentially picking up trash, apparently. I sauntered over, pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a love letter. A poem actually. I don�t remember the exact wording but the gist of it was that the writer had been admiring a woman from afar. He rhapsodized over her many apparently-evident good qualities and then ended with something along the lines of �I try to speak to you, but I don�t know what to say.� And at the bottom was a man�s name and phone number. Much as it�s fun to think of this grand, goofy, romantic gesture as being directed at me, I knew it wasn�t. I didn�t wait at that bus stop regularly and at the time I was sporting a conspicuous engagement ring. I carefully folded it and put it back. I�d already found my prince charming; let some other woman find hers. Whenever I think of that poem, I feel buoyed up to think that I live in a world where people actually commit these acts of romanticism (cheesy though they may be). I walked by the same spot on my way home and the poem was gone. I don�t know what became of the whole thing and I wonder if the intended target ever noticed the paper there and, if she did, if she read it and realized it was meant for her. I like to imagine she did.
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