Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) Read Free Page B

detail came into focus: the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw, like a razor blade. She felt the blood rush to her face as she grabbed her day bag, then pushed and slammed past him, stammering what she had meant to be an apology: “Sorry, I don't date bald, ugly men, and especially not married ones!” She headed off in the opposite direction.
    With its maze of underground tunnels leading to the subway line and office buildings, Union Station was a place of bustle and confusion. Sharp wedges of refracted sunlight from the clerestory windows caught the floating motes suspended in the air, giving the place an odd dream-like quality. Passengers were boarding and trains departing to places all over North America; knots of people with indistinct faces were looking about. Announcements were being made over a loudspeaker system in both French and English: “Now boarding, train No. 85 for Port Hope.”
    The prevailing smells were of diesel oil from the train, fresh-baked cinnamon buns from Cinnabon and fresh-brewed coffee from The Second Cup. Everything else was a blur as Jillian walked along the marble corridors, hearing the echoes of her footsteps ricocheting off the walls, while overhead the arched coffered ceilings soared twenty-seven metres high. She gazed up at the enormous columns and decorative friezes where pigeons had settled and were now peering down from dark nooks at the passing crowds below. Suddenly a woman with a heavily made-up face, a billboard face, loomed in front of her, clutched at her right arm and began speaking to her in a foreign language; was it Russian? Jillian could make nothing of it. She recalled reading stories in newspapers of purse thieves who could skilfully snatch a person's identification, credit cards and money within a matter of seconds. The woman spoke loudly and was persistent.
    Jillian stammered and apologized, “No! I have no money. Please l-l-leave me alone,” then broke free and pushed her way blindly, all but stumbling, through the crowds. Then she was struck by the sight of a gaunt man lying on a sleeping-bag. He looked quite out of place in the business district— a sharp contrast to the well dressed people walking by. His head was bent and his eyes were half closed, moving only now and then, oblivious to the passing crowds. He had tucked his arms behind his back as if he were cold and needed to lie on them to keep warm. He lay pressed down amid empty Macdonald's wrappers and had set out a dirty Styrofoam cup to collect loose change. A stench of cigarettes and unwashed clothes drifted towards her as she walked past him. He was one of the many homeless, and she could almost hear his moans in the midst of the noise of Union Station. How easy it is to just fall out of society— to give up, she thought. Her heart sank; she turned back, dropped a ten-dollar bill into the styrofoam cup and walked away quickly, not daring to look back.
    Moments later she was standing outside on the busy corner of Front and Bay Streets among well-dressed people pushing past her, with the tall office and hotel buildings soaring high above. She was grateful for the outdoors, for the feeling of invisibility in the midst of the shifting crowds. Cars were inching forward in the congested streets, and taxis were lined up along the curbs, idling their engines. Their exhaust fumes were spreading, invisible but all too evident to her nose. They gave the air a mahogany haze, and the clouds looked menacing; the wind was picking up leaves and debris and scattering them across the dusty sidewalks. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. A yellow taxi had just crawled up to the curb where she was standing. A dream-like sequence of events began: she stretched out her hand, about to grip the rear door of the taxi; but just then a voice, like a firecracker going off from behind her, asked, “Is this taxi free?” A tall young man in Levi's jeans and a grey T-shirt stepped out abruptly