Small-people world

Context: I’m sitting at my desk on the 19th floor of the TD building at the corner of Yonge and Adelaide, in the heart of Toronto’s financial district. I share my office with three other colleagues. Along one wall we have a series of giant windows, which look out into the world and down at the busy intersection below.

In comes Chris, the intermittent finance guy. I see him every other week or so, but this was the first time he had come into our office. He walks up to the window and looks down.

“Looking at the small-people world?” I ask him, slightly surprised by his visit.

“Sort of. There is a women down there. In a blue coat. She is begging for money…. I know her. I have a picture of her holding me when I was just 6-months old. Our families grew up together. Her parents were Uncle Jim and Aunt Sue, practically family. We spent all of our family vacations together. Her dad is a school teacher, and her mother a nurse. She sort of took a turn for the worst somewhere, getting into drugs and all. “

“Does she recognize you?”  My colleague asks.

“No. I doubt she would or even could. It’s been quite a few years now,” Chris responds.

“It’s strange to think how someone with the same upbringing as you ended up on such a different path,” I add.

“Well, that’s it. They say she got in with the ‘wrong crowd’ in high school and ever since then…. Sorry to bring in so much emotion to your office.”

“No need to apologize, come by anytime.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later,” Chris says as he leaves the room.

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