One did not run in Roy Thomson Hall. Roy Thomson Hall is the kind of place where you find yourself calling a person “one.” My head slued around, like everyone else’s, to see what ill-bred specimen had escaped the ushers, and quickly turned to face the stage again, pretending I didn’t know him when I saw it was Sean. Yet I was glad he’d come. His running slowed to a trot as he drew nearer, his eyes scanning the rows for me. He lifted a finger, gave a kind of salute and a broad smile, and began wriggling his way in past the seated patrons. He was wearing a jacket and tie, but the jacket wouldn’t feel at home at Eleanor’s party, and that tie! It looked as if it had been designed by Picasso in one of his more vibrant moments. “Sorry I’m late,” he boomed lowering himself into the seat. “Couldn’t find the darned place. I was sure I knew exactly where it was, but it moved on me.” “These new buildings are all alike—undependable. One of those big acoustic tiles fell right off the ceiling the week the place opened.”
