KATE
Chapter 4

It takes me about twenty minutes to go from Union Station over to Weelz Kuriers. I may be overweight, and short, but I can make pretty good time in my chair when I put my mind to it. Thankfully I've missed rush-hour, so I don't end up having to maneuver around all the folks getting off work. No...instead I have to maneuver around the dinner crowds, which isn't so bad, I guess. Not my favourite thing, since most of them are pretty damn inconsiderate, but hey...whatcha gonna do?

The courier place is a small, hole in the wall outlet with five or six bikes locked to a rack beside the big open door which, to my pleasure (and, ok, not total surprise), has a ramp leading up to it. I'll admit that I feel, and always have, out of place in a room full of cyclists (envious? not me!), but at least they tend to be more courteous than regular pedestrians. When I arrive, there are a couple off duty couriers chowing down on takeout. Smells like Mexican (I LOVE Mexican...even if its just horrible for me). I head over to the desk and ring the bell a few times until the desk clerk, who I assume is Ron from the phone, answers. "Hey, what can I do for you?"

"My name's Kate Wineburg. I called earlier about a package," I say and hand over the courier slip. Ron-From-The-Phone takes it, looks it over, and heads into the back. While he's there, I ask, "Umm...incidentally, do you know if someone from here delivered an order of flowers to my office today?"

"Where's your office at?" he says over his shoulder, sorting through packages.

"I'm with the Post."

"Gimme a sec to check...yup, here we are. Kate Wineburg, 159 St. George," he says, bringing a small, bubble wrapped envelope over and handing me a clipboard. "Sign here."

I scribble my signature down and take the package onto my lap, "About the flowers?"

"Yeah," he says, presumably looking through a book (I can only barley see over the counter), "Hmm. Nope, I don't have anything down here for flowers to the Post. You know who delivered them?"

"I don't know. A woman, I didn't get a description," I say, wishing I'd interrogated Florence in a bit more detail.

"Well, out of 23 couriers we've got ten women employed here, so I'm afraid I really can't help you."

It's a long shot, but I ask anyway, "Um, she came by about 10:30 this morning."

He flips through the book, "Hmmm...well, Jane was off today, Nicole was running a parcel...Alexandra was on her break. I dunno."

"Is she around now?"

"Nope, you missed her by...oh, thirty, fourty minutes. Something like that."

"Oh...alright then,"I say, trying not to sound dissapointed. The mystery is most definitly afoot.

"You want me to tell her you're looking for her?"

"Nah...nah, it's cool. Thanks again," I say, turning away from him, the package still sitting on my lap.

"Hey, no problem. You have a good night."

"Thanks," I say as I wheel out the door and onto the street. I go along a ways, turn up onto Front (which takes some work, since the incline gets kinda steep), and stop at a Starbucks. Just like Mexican...I really shouldn't drink coffee. But I figure a cup of decaf can't hurt. So I get a decaf mocha and sit at the table, contemplating the package. Eventually, I just break down and open it. There's a rainbow "Pride" keychain with a wheelchair symbol on it, and a card for a predominantly gay-lesbian coffe shop on Wellesly, one of the few that I actually go to once and a while, with the number "16" written on the back and the closing time circled. The plot thickens.

Thanking the fact that Starbucks has wheelchair accesible, private washrooms, I quickly change and cath myself, leave the coffee shop, hit the street...and stop. And consider things. So far today a bicycle courier has brought me flowers and apparently given me a key chain. And now she's trying to get me to a club. But...why? Ok, nevermind the obvious idea that she might actually be attracted to me, as odd as that may be (do stable people really go to this much trouble to ask someone out?). Actually...come to think of it, I'm somewhat weirded out by the fact that she actually figured out where I live. I mean, there's gotta be more than one K. Wineburg in Toronto, and you need to buzz in to get inside my building.

Which is leading me to a really weird chain of logic. Is it possible that there's some sort of conspiracy to set me up on a date? It'd explain things, I guess, but it seems really unlikely.

Maybe this is some kind of proxy thing. I have no idea why. God, I'm not used to this sort of complicated stuff in getting asked out. It just seems so...I dunno. Frivilous. I like a good mystery as much as the next muckraker, but this is just silly. But still...hey, whatever. I've got a mystery. So I might as well go figure out what the answer is, otherwise it's just going to keep annoying me.

So here I am, paused in the middle of the sidewalk. I guess I've made up my mind. So I head towards Union Station. I've got some time to kill till the coffee shop closes, but I might as well stake it out before that. A Johnny-Come-Lately never gets anywhere, afterall (or would that be Jane-Come-Lately?). So I grab a train back to my place and get some better clothes on.

When I go "out on the town", I generally stick to baggy pants or foot-length skirts, as I get a lot more odd stares if my braces are showing. So...shower, teeth, then clothes. I can't find any clean pants, but I DO find a dark, dark red skirt that takes some considerable work to get into, but that I DO come off as looking half-decent in. I pick a wine coloured, short sleeved blouse that, by some miracle, matches the skirt. After some hunting I discover that, no, I really AM wearing the best shoes I currently own. Fool with my hair for ten or fifteen minutes before I realize that I'm stalling, sigh, audibly, spritz on some deoderant, and head out before I lose my nerve.