It's because he always said DuPONT, instead of DOOpont.
That was part of it, anyway. And the dishes I let pile up, the music we never agreed on, that girl at his office. Then our building was sold and we had to move and we don't live together anymore.
“ 'DuPONT', ” says Kathleen, shaking her head. “What an asshole.” She's letting me stay at her place down on Brock.
I'm wearing my new button with the name of our old subway station. “Not one of our big sellers,” said the salesgirl, when I paid my three bucks. The truth is, I rarely ever take the subway, but when I moved to Kathleen's, an unthinkable twelve blocks south of the Bloor line, I found myself missing it. Like losing an old friend I'd never paid much attention to.
Oh, I know, Dupont is an odd station with which to identify. It's not a Bathurst or a Queen, where people go to work and play. Dupont's a place to come home to after work. Trees and porches. Great cheese shop, and the LCBO a block away. The upstairs neighbours barbecueing on the back deck, inviting us up for wine they read about in Toronto Life.
Dupont's not really a destination, unless you're going to Casa Loma. Wearing a Dupont button is like saying out loud that your favourite Beatle is Ringo.
But the station itself; I love the groovy space-pod entrances, the orange pop-art tiles, the sprawling Montreal Metro-ish mezzanine. It's not Dupont's fault that it's not in a more interesting location. And besides, Octopus' Garden wasn't such a bad song.
Tonight, Kathleen's bringing me to a party at a new gallery around the corner.
She squints again at the orange Dupont button. “You're not really gonna wear that, are you?”