Summer Fiction Issue

By Anne Chudobiak

We are in Ottawa, my hometown, for the weekend. An anniversary. My husband’s grandparents' sixtieth.

Saturday morning, we head for the bookstore. You know the one. Beside Winners?

I want a copy of Ottawa Magazine, but the store isn’t open. We are absurdly early. We’d have a coffee but are convinced that Starbucks gives you a big bum.

Beside the café, there is a store, doors open, sporty clothing inside. At the back, there is a wall lined with shoes.

“I need sandals,” my husband says. “Which ones?”

“These?” I say. “They’re all ugly.”

We have been married for five years.

I leave him with the flip-flops. The bookstore should be open by now and I want my magazine. Summer fiction. Four stories by Ottawa writers.

I’m curious about what it’s like to live and write in Ottawa. Should I have moved back, taken a language job at some high-tech company, sent my work to Ottawa Magazine?

I may have to wait to find out.

On the shelf, there are more literary journals than I have ever heard of--Nashwaak, Queen’s Quarterly, Windsor Review--but no Ottawa summer fiction.

“We’re getting a hundred and fifty copies,” the clerk tells me. “On Monday.”

I grab a Toronto Life (in spite of the cover) and head for Philosophy, where I can see my husband. New shoes. Not bad, really.