World of Glass Read Free Page A

paycheque, in a week. I have spent most of my last one. Just enough left for a few meals, bus tickets and a small pack of Rothmans.At home, I take out my lined paper. I grab a pen. My hand burns and I write:
    HOT SUMMER NIGHT
    A jazz beat plays through a speaker
    in the background. I hear the music
    from my balcony while I watch fireworks
    blazing in the sky. The moon is full,
    a few grey clouds around the moon, dancing.
    I see your hair and eyes on a cloud,
    through my kitchen window, between my bed
    sheets. Your scent, skin colour, your
    unshaven, shaven beard – chemistry spells
    perfect. My body perspires. I desire.
    I remember when we remained motionless,
    our faces scarcely touching, without
    a word, for a long time and then you touched
    my pores, my heart. When I touched
    you, you stayed on the palms of my hands.
    I looked at my hands and thought that you
    were perfect.
    I cannot wash off what is perfect, what
    shines like crystal, something more than
    wind, stronger than rain, more solid than
    stone.
    I slip the poem into a white envelope. At work, I place it on Claude’s desk. A day goes by. No response. I’m crushed.
    My neighbours play Led Zeppelin. My head pounds. I slide Jacques Brel in to drown the music next door. I take outmy nail polish and files that I picked up at La Baie. First, I paint my toenails, then file down my fingernails until they are round and smooth. The doorbell rings. I open the front door but there is no one there. I check the mailbox. It is empty. Did the bell really ring? Or maybe there is a sound that resembles a doorbell in the music that plays next door? Perhaps Claude rang. I imagine him ringing and vanishing. I will never know for sure. I walk back to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the lid down. I go through my makeup bag. I do not use most of what I own. I throw away mascara and purple and blue eye shadow that have sat in this bag, unused, for a long, long time. I keep two shades of red and pink lipstick, blush and a brown eyeliner pencil. I look at my face in the mirror above the bathroom sink. I do not have a smoker’s face yet. I open my mouth wide and examine my teeth. They are straight but stained light yellow from nicotine and tar. Tomorrow, I will buy whitening toothpaste, the one with baking soda in it that I saw advertised in Gloss . I will remember to take note of Claude’s teeth, his fingernails. I prefer short, stubby nails on men. Claude probably clips his once a week. I lift my T-shirt, and look down at the large scar covering my left breast. I cannot hide this from Claude. The first time we have sex must be in complete darkness, or I will keep my white lace undershirt on. He cannot discover this. He will surely think that I am a monster. I pull my T-shirt down. It is mid-May. It will be mild enough tomorrow for my cotton sweater. No coats tomorrow. I will also wear my black open-toed sandals. Magenta on my toenails.
    A young man walks into the office carrying a camera and a large black shoulder bag. A beautiful young woman strolls beside him.
    â€œI’m here to sign the contract,”he says to the receptionist. As they walk by my desk, I ask, “Will you be shooting the cover of our next issue?”
    â€œYes. This is Lola,” he says. They strut over to Claude’s desk. The young woman lifts her head up high. Her nose points to the ceiling, almost. Claude looks up and his eyes freeze at Lola’s thick, pouty, rounded, kissable lips. I hear her giggle. She is no more than seventeen. Her sleek, shiny skin is revealed by a low-cut tank top sticking to her small breasts. A hip-hugging miniskirt enhances her long, long legs. Claude can’t take his eyes off her. She gives him a shy smile. They flirt and flirt and flirt. I suddenly feel plain and small. I grab my briefcase and rush out the door. I am steaming. My head hurts. I get off the Métro, walk into a drugstore and pick up Straightening gel for damaged hair .