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breakfast in Chicago earlier this morning. I channel my inner foodie and whip together a couple of eggs. I chop up an old-l ooking green pepper that I find in the fridge along with some prosciutto I find sitting in the cold cuts drawer. Not a shred of cheese available to include in this omelet but I make do. I turn on my iPod docked in its station, pour myself some cold water, and sit down to eat, a la one.  Roy Orbison is singing to his pretty woman. Oh gawd.
    Why do I feel like the stereo of my life is following me around today? Mr. Orbison, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to shut you off. I just can’t deal right now. Everywhere I turn I see Caroline. I wonder where she was going heading west along Bloor Street. I wonder what she’s doing right now. I wonder what I did wrong to make her leave the way she did.
    I eat as quickly as I can and then throw my dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I put on my cycling shoes and grab my helmet from the front closet. I take a bottle of water for the road and head down to my storage area in the condo basement to get my bike, a Bianchi Sempre road bike that I just recently bought.
    One day about a month ago, while I was riding my old bike down Church Street, I noticed a homeless man pulling something out of the garbage. With all his strength, he managed to pull a bike out of a tall industrial waste bin. Once he sat on the seat and tried to pedal, the bike wouldn’t move at all. I can’t tell you how much the look of disappointment on the homeless man’s face when he saw the bike was missing a chain disturbed me. I think it was the hope that I saw in his eyes as he was pulling the bike out of the bin and that look turning into one of disappointment when the bike wouldn’t move that affected me deeply. It was at that moment when I knew that my bike was no longer mine; it had to go to him. So, I rode over to him and just handed him over my bike.  End of that story.
    With the light air blowing in my face, I ride and ride thinking about a lot of things. For one, the work I have to catch up on now that I just took the entire afternoon off is weighing on my mind. I think about having to pay my parents a visit sometime soon. I haven’t seen them in awhile. I think about my weekend in Chicago and then quickly brush those memories aside. Then, of course, I think of Sweet Caroline and remembering how , from a distance, she caught my eye.  Her face, like a ghost, is haunting me wherever I turn.
    I look up from my bike and read the street signs. I am on the exact corner where the cab driver dropped off Caroline a few hours ago. Bloor and Runnymede. Without even realizing it, I must’ve ridden west from Yorkville along Bloor Street. I stop, take a drink of water from my bottle and look around.
    Where did she go? Does she live around here? I pedal lightly and slowly, gazing all around me. There are shops, restaurants, doctors’ offices, and banks lining this strip of Bloor Street. On top of these businesses there are apartments. Could she live in one of these?
    I continue to ride further along the north side of Bloor and note the number of coffee shops, flower shops, and even a drugstore along the strip. I turn my head to look at the south side of the strip and see more of the same: independent grocers, a bookstore, and boutiques. I stop my bike again and get off it. I find a nearby park bench and sit on it resting my bike beside me. Soaking in the afternoon sun, I rest there. I watch the people walking by along the sidewalk. Old ladies pulling their loaded shopping carts behind them, nannies and young mothers pushing strollers with babies in them, young boys toting their skateboards looking for just the right ramp.  I see a lot of people but I don’t see Caroline. I get back on my bike and ride away.
    Hours later, back in my condo, I’m showered and dressed, sitting in front of my computer ready to get down to work. I figure I’ll put in a couple of hours of work and then turn in. I