By Courtney Jane Walker | Photograph by Jo-Anne McArthur
In the early weeks of 2005, I attended a tsunami relief fundraiser at a vegetarian co-op in the Annex, where I met a cute guy named Andrew wearing hemp necklaces and a Burton Cummings T-shirt. Andrew and I both left with other people, but we ran into each other a few months later and fell into conversation like old friends, talking for hours on the sidewalk. We were both still in undergrad at U of T when we started dating, and it got serious fast. After just a few months, we moved in together, occupying a bedroom in a shared house on Borden Street that should have been condemned, especially given the size and frequency of our parties. We weren’t thinking about marriage, and that was fine by me. But I knew early on that I wanted to hang on to this guy who always called me when he said he would and loved to travel as much as I did and tolerated my incessant renditions of scenes from Les Miz. We fell into a natural rhythm and time flew by, as it does when you find someone who fits. We graduated from university, acquired a couple of cats and abandoned our Annex slum for a cozy one-bedroom in Cabbagetown. Before we knew it, we were grown-ups—kind of.
Everything you’re about to read is true. I’m withholding my name to protect my marriage, but the people, the places and the dates are just as I describe. It all began in the spring of 2011, after several bellinis at a Milestones with my best friend. She giddily whispered in my ear that she was having an affair with someone she had met on AshleyMadison.com, the hook-up website targeted at married people. She pulled out her iPhone and surreptitiously showed me a picture of her paramour. He was attractive, with a chiseled face and a broad smile. He’d ended their first date by kissing her passionately—something she hadn’t experienced in years. I felt a pang of envy.
Mayor Rob Ford and the Toronto Sun’s beautiful friendship—a years-long affair based on shared political beliefs, 
So there we were, basking in the afterglow of Ma and Pa Strange belting out Buffy Saint Marie on karaoke (we knew we were in for a good episode when we got goosebumps), when all of a sudden…whaaaaaaa??? We have paused this week’s episode halfway through so that we can weigh in before we find out what in the name of Goblins is going on. Question 1: Are we the only ones having a Bobby Ewing flashback? Question 2: What does all this mean? Have the past two years—the time travel, the multiple failed relationships, the publishing career, that horrible outfit at Pride—been nothing more than two weeks’ worth of coma dreams? And, for that matter, what is a Code White? OK, back to the show. 
