I have an atrocious head-ache and it’s all my fault. I bought my dinner at Grade A Restaurant, a place on Grandville somehow left over from the early seventies, and without thinking, I ordered something with meat. Only fictional gods know what was in it. The Grade A Restaurant specializes in Chinese-Canadian food, like you only get where the railroad was built, greasy and cheap. It’s all formica topped tables, prints of hay bales, and prices five years lower than I feel are safe. The only consession to this century is an ATM machine in blue plastic that looks like it was designed in 1989. I love it there. It is never empty, but I am always the only woman and possibly the only customer under the age of Old. I don’t mean a number, like 16 or 35 or 50, I mean Old in that shabby craggy face sort of way, where hair only comes in two options, thinning or insane.