It was a different neighbourhood back then. Lots more little shops, family run and a little scruffy. On Yonge Street a few corner stores still eked out a living, and two of them were owned by Poles, who lived in the Roncesvalles area but kept shops here for unknown reasons and had something of a rivalry going. Jake and she liked the one owned by Mr. Żeleński, who had a little sign that read Mówlmy Po Polsku—We Speak Polish—in his window, although since there were very few Poles in the neighbourhood, Colleen wondered why he bothered.It was mid-summer, when the asphalt was soft underfoot and everything felt gritty and sticky. Jake and Colleen had lunch and a few beers at a little Chinese place they liked and on the way back to the apartment decided to stop into Mr. Żeleński’s and pick up what she needed for dinner that night.Mr. Żeleński sat behind the low counter reading Wiadomośri, the Polish newspaper. He was a little wrinkle of a man, wearing a woollen vest over his white shirt, even on the hottest days.
