The news coursed through the sewers of Toronto society in the way it so often does these days: via Instagram.
“Home…where this ring belongs,” declared Mary Symons, a self-styled bon vivant, in a post she put up late last year, riffing on an image of three interlocking gold bands. “Bought at age 18 in Florence,” she went on, “the #trinityring stands for #love #trust #friendship…never let it go where it does not belong.”
In the symbolism of the day, this much was clear: when the going gets tough, the tough go hash-tagging.
That — and because posts likes these this is the electronic equivalent, in our age, of putting up a billboard at Yonge-Dundas Square — it was an open invitation to speculate. In the parlance of millennial love on social media (though Symons is far from a millennial), it was definitely also performative. For those of us who’d heard the sotto voce whispers, it served, too, as confirmation: the biggest “divorce” in see-and-be-seen circles here, in some time, had occurred not between two lovebirds, but between a young widow and her gay BFF (or “gusband,” as that too-trite sobriquet goes) .