World of Glass Read Free

Tomorrow, I will diet. I want these jeans to look as good on me as they do on this model. I want Claude to prefer me over her.
    It is Saturday. Joan visits from Toronto. I buy her a red-beaded necklace. I tell her I’m in love. She says, “You don’t know him.” I say, “I do, I do.” Joan wears tight black pants and a short green top, showing off her belly button. She tells me she’s started to produce documentaries. Moved up from being an administrative assistant. “One day, I will write, direct and produce my own,” she adds. I take her out for a smoked meat sandwich at Ben’s. She says she’s happy that I’m making money. She says that I look good, then, finally, adds that she is three months pregnant and will keep the child. Will I have a baby with Claude? Joan places her hand over mine on the restaurant table.
    â€œTake it slowly,” she says. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t realize how certain I am. That evening, she reads The Mirror . I look at Voir , and take note of ads that might be appropriate for Gloss . She reads my horoscope out loud: “On your way to becoming a big shot? Behaving like one certainly opens doors. As Venus is about to leave your opposite sign, it’s wise to make the best of things before the door closes.” She then stretches out on the bed and falls asleep. The phone rings. I do not answer. Could it be Claude? I dial star 69 to get the number. It is not a number I recognize. I turn out the light and slip between the covers, beside Joan. She sleeps deeply. I hear the sound of her breath coming from deep within her chest. My eyes remain open but all I see is blackness. The next day, I accompany Joan to the train station. I hug her, tell her our visit was too short and that I’m happy that she is going to have the baby. She says that she is going to raise this child alone. She wants the baby, not the father. For a moment, I think about how courageous she is. I hold her tight once more. “I love you,” I say.
    I get out of bed, pick up a pen, think of Claude, then jot down the words, “I cannot wash off what is perfect.” I wearmy new yellow dress and belt. Coffee drips from a brown plastic filter that sits on top of my large mug. I keep pouring water from my kettle into the filter until the mug is full. I will go to the office first. Pick up more magazines. Make a few calls. I will see Claude. He will see my new dress. I take the purple rose from my kitchen table. The petals are limp, but it has life in it still. I stand in the Métro, holding the rose in one hand and a pole in the other. The train is crowded. No smiles. A man standing next to me coughs with his hand over his mouth, then holds on to the pole again. The same pole I am holding. I fear catching his cold so I move a few feet away from him and grip another one. I look around. A few people have their eyes closed. A young man listens to his Walkman. His head nods up and down. A few read Le Journal de Montréal , one man in a grey suit flips through La Presse . The air is stale. I have trouble breathing. I look at the Métro map on the wall. Three more stops to go before I exit.
    Claude is not at his desk. I place the rose on top of a few press releases. On a note pad, I write my home number neatly, draw a large heart and sign my name, “Chloé.” The publisher calls me into his office, congratulates me on the good job I am doing. He doesn’t know about Claude and me. He wouldn’t approve. I would surely get fired. I leave the office as I have appointments all around town. I get one ad and another. I stop in at the SAQ but know nothing about wines. I go to the “Foreign” section and pick up a bottle of Medea, Algerian wine for only $9.95. I will open this bottle with Claude when I invite him soon to my place. First, I must buy glasses and of course, sheets. I will buy these items as soon as I receive my next