World of Glass Read Free Page B

Lola’s hair is slick and shiny. I wonder what product she uses? I have lost weight, not because I am eating less, but because my nerves are burning the flesh from my body.
    I walk past shops on St-Denis but I do not go inside. I must take the day off. I will make myself a cup of tea and rest.
    The Lover sits on my kitchen table. I pick it up. I see words on the printed page but can’t make sense out of them. I will not return to work. I feel small, so small. I rest my head on my flat pillow, close my eyes and drift.
    I do not call Gloss to tell them that I’m not coming back. My phone rings at 9:30 a.m. I let it ring. I get up to make coffee. I do not bathe or wash my hair. My neighbour knocks at my back door and hands me clothes that I had washed inthe bathtub and hung to dry on the clothesline some days ago. “I need to use the line,” she says. I do not feel like speaking to anyone. I do not want to see anybody. I throw on a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, and walk across the street to the dépanneur to buy milk and cigarettes.
    â€œYou not work today?” the Chinese lady says, staring at me as she stands behind the counter. I shake my head and keep my eyes on the woman’s hands as she places my purchases in a small grey plastic bag. It is almost summer. In my kitchen, I take a few bites of my croissant, drink a large glass of milk. My stomach turns. I vomit in the toilet. Sun beams through the window. I open my back door and stretch my body over the balcony floor. The sun warms me, but soaks up my energy. I lie there, motionless, like stone.
    The phone sits on the floor by my bed. I dial my mother, who lives in Terrebonne. She tells me that, twenty years ago, she had an affair with a married man named John. His wife found out about it, and the affair came to an abrupt end. Two weeks ago, this same man, through intense research, found my mother’s phone number. Now they are madly in love. She tells me that his wife died a year ago.
    â€œWhen will you visit me?” I ask.
    â€œI’m leaving for a few weeks to spend time at John’s cottage. I’ll come down to see you when I get back.” I do not let her know that I’m no longer working. I will receive my last paycheque in the mail. This will pay for next month’s rent. In three weeks, I will ask to borrow money from my mother for food.
    â€œKeep in touch,” I say to her.
    Toi, Moi et Café is a twenty-minute walk from my home. I slip on a sleeveless, dark red summer dress. I go there for coffee. The waitress is friendly. She’s from Paris and keeps filling my bottomless cup. I sit there, by the window, crushing my burning cigarette into the small white ashtray. My fingers twist a strand of hair. I take out The Lover from my purse. I put the book down on the table, unopened. I wonder whether Claude, sitting at his desk in the office, misses me. Have I been replaced by someone who is taller, slimmer, with slick hair? What if Claude walks into this café? Do I say hello or do I turn away? Do I hide my face behind a newspaper? I put change on the table, take my oval sunglasses from a black vinyl case, put them on, then step out the door and stroll down the sidewalk with my head tilted toward the ground. I avoid stepping on cracks. Break your mother’s back. I see a penny. I stop and pick it up. The date on it is 1954. A long time ago. I make a wish. I wish that Claude will get on his scooter, drive to my apartment, tell me he is in love. But will I answer my door if my bed is unmade and dirty dishes are piled up in the sink? What would he think of my living room, empty, except for books stacked on the floor? Books I have not all read. Books I cannot read now.
    I feel curiously lightheaded. I stretch out on my bed. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead and armpits. I am not hungry but I must eat to keep myself alive. I drag myself to the kitchen and grab a McIntosh from a yellow plastic bowl I