 
RECORD ONE: PEEP SHOW

Copyright © 2013 by Allthing Publications

Smashwords Edition

With stories by Trevor Abes, Carine Abouseif, Amir Ahmed, Beth Carroll, Jodelle Faye DeJesus, Larissa Ho, Katherine Lucynski, Olivia Matthias, Luke Sawczak

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The nine authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories. Opinions and stories presented in this publication are exclusively of the authors, and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors, or of Allthing Publications. Additionally, Allthing Publications and the editors take no responsibility for accuracy of facts, names, or events represented in this publication.

The cover for this book uses an eye icon drawn by Ayesha Rana of the Noun Project. It is licensed under the Creative Commons CC BY 3.0.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Beard Diary by Amir Ahmed

Homicidal Stranger by Larissa Ho

Minor Benefactors by Luke Sawczak

The Tobacco Defenestration by Trevor Abes

One of Those Days by Katherine Lucynzki

Peak and Valley by Jodelle Faye DeJesus

Insomnia and the Working Girl by Olivia Matthias

Eman by Carine Abouseif

Yellow Butterflies by Elizabeth Carroll

Acknowledgments

**Foreword**

I am so bad at titles.

It's my Achilles Heel, my Death Star Exhaust Port, my most open and unabashedly alarming weakness.

That's why, even though I wanted to compile stories of people's lives from 2012–2013, I held off for months because I didn't know what to call the damn thing. Everything I came up with was either pretentious enough to make me gag on my own thoughts ( _Neoblastic_ —meaning "new growth") or strange enough that no one would ever read it ( _Amir's Cavalcade of Whimsy and Delight_ ).

It's the day before we publish, and I still don't have a name. So, as long as you and I have this little space to talk, let's just call it was it really is: a peep show. A peep show featuring nine people, living in the same place at the same time.

For these nine people, a lot has happened in the short time they've been alive. The Berlin Wall fell. Hip-hop became a thing. Twitter happened. Protestors in Tahrir Square threw down an autocrat. There was a civil war in Libya. The iPhone 5 came out.

We saw a lot of big stories. If you want big stories, you don't need to look here. You can turn on the news and see drone strikes in Pakistan, nuclear threats from North Korea, and a garbage island the size of Texas churning in the Pacific. Heck, I heard the guy with no legs who climbed Mount Killimanjaro has a book out. If big lives and big stories are your thing, you can go read that book; it's probably great.

Or maybe, you'd like to hear some little stories.

Amid the big news, big things, and big people that happened in the past few years, there was a lot of other stuff going on. Some of it was bad. Parents got divorced. Relationships didn't work out. Our beards never grew in. But there was good stuff too: we remembered our loved ones after they left. We got enough sleep. We quit smoking.

That's what this collection is for. Little stories, little people, and little things. We didn't necessarily make headlines, climb mountains, or even pay our rent on time, but we were here, and I think that counts for something.

Amir Ahmed

April 2013, Mississauga

**Beard Diary**

Amir Ahmed

Day 1: Peach fuzz

Six-thirty at the GO station. Overhead, the train rumbles over the bridge. The rails shudder. The wheels scream with mounting velocity. We feel the rush of air on our cheeks.

Then, the train is gone. An orange sun sinks below the trees, and throws long shadows over the world.

Carine and I descend the narrow aluminum staircase leading down from the station. It's a warm summer evening. The air smells of grass and chalk dust.

I'm wearing work clothes I hate: rough khakis, a billowy dress shirt, and a stiff trench coat I got from H&M that makes my butt look big. Carine is dressed much nicer: jeans and a soft purple hoodie. She's still a student. She has enough freedom to wear what she wants, and enough free time to see her boyfriend home from work.

Somehow, we get to talking about beards.

"I saw Sergei yesterday," I tell Carine. "He has a beard."

"I see," Carine says.

We dismount the steps and come to the sidewalk on Dundas. To the east, the street rolls up to the strip malls, power centres, and, eventually, the city core. West, it dips to the park, the river, and small, clustered suburbs.

We head west. Beside us, cars inch forward on the road. I hitch my bag over my other shoulder. My fingers work apart the cuffs of my dress shirt.

"A good beard," I add. "It's so full and thick and—bristly."

"You felt his beard?" Carine asks.

I don't have to answer that.

We clear the underpass of the bridge. A pigeon bursts out of the eaves and flutters to the ground. A red Civic swerves in front of a black Jeep. The Jeep wails its horn. I rub the spot beneath my eyebrow.

"You okay?" Carine asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Just tired."

I don't know how much longer I can keep up with my commute: ninety minutes to get to work, and another ninety just to get home every day. All to work for free on a magazine I've learned is built on advertorials and ads for big business. There is no journalism.

The sidewalk dips. The cars huff and puff beside us.

We pass two black iron gates. They're open. A dirt path leads off the sidewalk and between the gates. The path leads into Riverwood—the forest by the station.

"Let's take a detour," Carine says.

We turn onto the path, away from Dundas. A gust shakes the treetops, and the gates give a slow creak. Gravel skitters beneath our feet.

The gust dies, and the noise of traffic fades as we enter the forest. This path cuts straight through a thick swatch of brush. Branches press up against the path. Leaves block the sky.

Carine and I walk side by side. After a while, we hold hands. The air smells sweet. With my free hand, I stroke my chin.

Carine leans on me. Her head barely makes it to my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her.

"Miro?" she asks.

"Hmm?"

"You're always talking about beards. Why haven't you ever grown one?"

I smile, sadly, and shake my head.

If only she knew...

Day 7: Scruff

I can't grow a beard.

"You're wrong, Amir."

My facial hair just isn't thick enough.

My face is a pale slip of sharp angles. Icepick nose, narrow chin, high, pointed cheeks. It's like the mountains in Tibet—and, like the mountains, things don't grow up there.

Down my cheeks, hair sprouts in long, thin stripes. Above the dip of my upper lip, it's better: a crescent of bristles thick, and black. But, not thick enough. My chin is a stronghold: a patch of fertile growth, but it fades as it climbs further up my jaw.

Beards.

"Amir. Listen to me."

My grandfather had a beard. His father had a beard. Why did the line of hirsute Ahmed men stop there? Why had the genetics that trickled down to me give me scruff and wisps of black?

Socrates wore a full beard. Lincoln cultivated a chinstrap. Shakespeare managed to pull off that sissy Van Dyke look.

Carine doesn't understand the importance of beards. I don't think any woman does. Men know. Men know the joy of manly raiment, the awe of full-bodied, powerful facial hair.

"Amir. Yo. I'm right here."

"Jon?" I ask. "When did you get here?"

"I got here twenty minutes ago." Jon checks his watch. "And we've been talking about beards for like, ten minutes."

I look around. Jon and I are standing outside the black glass front of Lemongrass, the restaurant Sergei wanted to go to for his birthday.

Jon and I became friends in the ninth grade. Back then, I'd toed ahead of him in the facial hair race: I was rocking a peach-fuzz moustache when he was a skinny, high-voiced kid.

I toed ahead of everyone back then. I studied harder. I won writing contests. I gave my life to extracurriculars. When we graduated, I carried five awards off the stage with my diploma. Now, the tables have turned: I am the hairless, jobless doughboy. Jon studied phys ed, and has a promising future of a master's in physiotherapy, and also muttonchops.

"Huh," I say. "I said all that stuff aloud?"

"Yeah, man," Jon sniffs. "Got sorta fruity at the end."

A line of people has formed behind us. Jon and I step aside to let them through. As we do, I catch our reflection in the glass. I see my face: dotted with stubble.

"Huh," I say. "So, what's this about beards?"

Jon smirks. "Any man can grow a beard."

"Bullshit."

My cell vibrates. I take it out and flip it open. It's a message from Sergei: Carolyn's running late, and he has to pick her up.

"You only think that because you shave too fast. You have to commit to it," Jon continues. "Let it grow out completely, let it just become a jungle, for about two to three weeks. Then, when it's thick and grown in, you shave it into the shape you want, and just let it fill in some more."

Jon makes it sound so simple. I shake my head and give a weary sigh.

I show Jon the message from Sergei. We leave the restaurant and walk around the mall. There are lots of kids: teenage girls with way too much makeup, and boys with hoodies way too big for them. I pass a chubby kid who can't be more than twelve. He wears plaid shorts, an oversized white t-shirt, and a black fedora.

"In your entire life, how long have you ever gone without shaving?" Jon asks me.

I don't answer. Instead, I inspect a booth selling wigs.

"Amir," Jon repeats. "How long?"

"Two weeks," I guess. "Maybe three."

"That's your problem. You need to take it to the next level. Go a month without shaving, and your face will fill in. It's impossible not to. It's science."

I get another message from Sergei. He's here. We head back to the restaurant.

I think Jon's full of shit. After all this time, all that staring into a mirror, willing the follicles to come together, and Jon is saying all I need to do is wait longer?

And yet, what if it was true? What if I could have the beard of my dreams?

We arrive back at the restaurant. Sergei is there with Carolyn. Kevin leans against the wall behind them, playing with his Blackberry.

"How long has it been since you last shaved?" Jon asks.

"Five days?" I venture. "No—a week, I think."

"Grow it," Jon insists.

We're getting closer to the group. I purse my lips. What do I have to lose? One last stand against facial baldness. I'll go further than I ever have before. I'll grow a beard.

"I'll do it," I say.

"Nice," Jon says. "Sergei! Happy birthday, man! So, what's good here? I'm thinking something low-carb..."

Day 18: Goatee

I see Sifu through the school's windows. He stands on his toes, rearranging tiny glass bottles of herbal medicine on a shelf. I push open the door. The bell rings. He turns around.

"Hello, Sifu." I bow. I straighten back up.

"Sifu" is a title, the Chinese equivalent of sensei. My Sifu's real name is Lee: a tall, muscular fifty-year old Chinese man from Hong Kong. He's a classic kung fu master: he studied Chinese medicine and his family's kung fu style under his grandfather, and then learned Shaolin kung fu from other masters.

Sifu's face is habitually blank. I interpret the blankness differently week, usually projecting some new fear onto it: Sifu must be mad at me for kicking the stand off the plum blossom dummy. Sifu must think I'm not working hard enough after taking a two-year sabbatical from kung fu. Sifu must have forgotten my name.

"Hello," Sifu says. His face is blank.

Sifu must think my beard is stupid.

Sifu turns back to the bottles. I head through the inner door, and enter the training hall of my kung fu school.

The school is a converted warehouse: a bare, concrete hall with red weapon racks lining the walls and multicoloured Chinese lion heads looking down from the ceiling.

I toss my gym bag in the changing room and head over to the stretch bar. I plonk one foot on the bar, put my hands on the bar, and bend forward.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the reflection of my watch. Today I shaved off all the scruff to concentrate on growing out the chin area into a sort of half-goatee. There's some definite shading going on there.

The bell rings at the front of the school.

"Hello, Sifu."

"Hello, hello."

I bend deeper into the stretch. I feel a pat on my back.

"Hey there, buddy."

I come up. It's Dale.

Dale is one of the older students, a jowly, wiry man, with a bald, bullet head. Dale specializes in Xing Yi kung fu, and talks at length about relaxation and inner peace while kicking punching bags into the stratosphere.

Dale squints. "You've got something on your face."

I rub my cheek, but realize he's referring to the goatee.

"Just something my friends put me up to," I say.

He eyes my chin and shakes his head. "Get better friends."

Just a few more weeks.

Day 30: Luscious

I pull my car into an empty space. Me and the Drive Test Guy jerk as the vehicle stops. I crank up the parking break, and kill the engine.

Silence.

Out the corner of my eye, I peek at the instructor. He's a short Egyptian man with close-cropped hair, a goatee, and a British accent. A pair of big black sunglasses block most of his face from me. He takes out a pen, clicks it, and scribbles on his clipboard.

A bead of sweat rolls down my chin. It gets caught in my beard. I scratch it.

"Congratulations," the instructor says. "You meet ministry standards."

He passes me a sheet of thin yellow paper. "Show this to the desk, and you'll get your new license in four to six weeks."

A cool, comfortable feeling rises in my chest. I realize I'm breathing again.

I'm at the DriveTest Centre in Oakville, and I've just passed my G2 for the second time. I shouldn't be happy, but I am. I feel like I'm walking on clouds.

My last G2 expired before I could pass the full G test. I've spent the last month without a car, taking the bus like a high school kid.

It was humiliating.

My mom, my dad, my little brother had to drive me everywhere. And when they weren't around, I could either stay home or take Mississauga's underfunded, eternally incompetent transit system.

I couldn't drive Carine anywhere. Once, at home, we got into a fight. I walked her to the bus stop when she wanted to leave, but as we left my mom came by in her car—oblivious to the awkward moment—and dropped her off at her place.

No more. I'm a driving man from now on, all the way until I fail my next G test.

I follow the DriveTest guy inside. I suppress a smile when my dad looks up at me from the lobby chairs, and I give him a firm thumbs-up. I pull out my yellow flimsy, and head over to the counter, and hand it over to the lady at a computer.

"Thanks," the lady behind the counter says. "Now, we need to take a picture. Just stand back..."

I take my place at the centre of a white screen. I notice a camera—one of those industrial-strength ones that bureaucrats get—on the counter.

"Can I smile?" I ask.

"No smiling please."

The camera whirs. No flash. The lady looks up from her screen and nods me over.

"You'll get your full license in four to six weeks in the mail. In the meantime, I'll give you this one."

The lady hands me a piece of paper. It has my information on it, with the Province of Ontario logo in the top left of the page.

"That'll be $120 for the processing fee," she adds.

I come forward with my card. As I'm paying, I sneak a look at her computer. My face is blown up on the screen.

Black and white. My face without glasses is thin. The cheeks, sallow. My hair flat and damp from sweat. My eyes unfocused. Beneath my lips is a scraggly half-goatee.

I look like a delinquent.

A delinquent with pubes on his chin.

Day 40: Itchy

My phone buzzes. I put down my coffee, swivel in my chair, and push off the wall. I roll to the end of my desk and snap it up.

It's a message from Jon.

Hey man, just saw your beard pics on FB. Looks good!

I toss the phone on my bed and return to the computer.

Jon was right: my beard has filled in. I now own a proud goatee. I even trimmed it three days ago.

Life is good. I've got my license, I passed a kung fu test, and the contract for my horrible job expires in one month. I'm also putting the final touches on a self-published novel. It's not exactly where I wanted to be at this age, but it's something.

I swoop back to the computer, back to the rough draft of a manuscript, and scratch my chin. It's been itching non-stop for the past three days. In fact, something about my beard feels off.

"Hmm."

I decide to investigate.

I head to the bathroom. In the bathroom mirror, I survey the beard. Something isn't right. I pinch a strand of hair, and pull.

My eyes widen.

The strand stretches out the distance of my finger.

I let go of the strand. The hair snaps back into place.

A cold feeling blooms in my chest.

I pinch and pull again. I peer into the follicles of my chin. They're spaced apart, too far apart to make a genuine goatee. It never filled in after all, the hairs just twined together to create the illusion of a luscious beard. But I haven't grown a beard. I've grown a clump.

I open the medicine cabinet. Behind a tube of Voltaren, and a half-full jar of Tiger Balm, lie a pair of scissors. I grab them. With my free hand, I grasp the entire goatee, and pull.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

Weeks of work and millennia of heritage tumble down my shirt and onto the white countertop.

When it's done, I stare into the mirror. My face is bare. It's the face of a twenty-three-year-old man-child. No job. No money. No way out.

My chin feels cold.

**Homicidal Stranger**

Larissa Ho

Lon, the psychologist, leads me out of his office and back to my hospital room.

"Don't forget to fill out the questionnaire, Larissa," he says in his soft voice.

"Take care."

"Thanks."

I share my room with a girl named Fiona. She's on the bed when I arrive at our room. Her face is haggard, and she stares at the chipped white wall across from her.

"Hey," she says when I come in. She looks at the questionnaire I have in my hand. "Homework?"

"Mhmm." I toss the questionnaire at the foot of the bed and I fling myself onto it, face down.

I hear them before I see them pass by the open doorway—four patients who are always together, laughing. I wonder what's so funny. There's not much to laugh about in a mental health unit.

"You know the guy in the red shirt?" says Fiona.

"Yeah. The one with the ripped jeans?"

"Exactly. His name is Ahmaad," she says in a low voice. "He's suicidal, homicidal, and violent. But you didn't hear it from me."

"I see," I say, though I really don't. What is the point of telling me how homicidal he is? I know Fiona has good intentions, but she has no idea how much Ahmaad, a guy who probably sees no point in living, scares me. He would most likely not hesitate to slit my throat if I were to step on his toes.

In the group discussions, I watch Ahmaad when he's not looking. His right leg shakes up and down and up and down and he stares at the rips in his jeans, his head bowed. The other three boys—Evan, Harry, and Oscar—all have their own troubles, too. They are deep in thought all the time. Their faces are blank, like they're not all there. They're probably so medicated they don't even know what they're thinking half the time. Maybe all the time.

Alistair became a patient at the hospital three days ago. He follows the pack around everywhere. He talks about his grandma, about how she's sick in a hospital in Milton. He laughs whenever Oscar swears. It sounds forced and unsure.

At lunch, we sit at the long tables in the dining area. Today's meal is rice and beans, minestrone soup, crackers, and apple juice. I think of my father's cooking.

The four boys—Ahmaad, Oscar, Evan, and Harry—are late to lunch. They only sit down after everyone else is done. I am still at the table when they arrive.

Just the sight of them makes me feel depressed. Depression is contagious, I've found. When one person has it, everyone feels it. I believe that when people are compassionate they can't help feel depressed when others do.

I like to think I'm compassionate. This is the reason, I tell myself, that I feel so depressed looking at these four boys, especially Ahmaad, whose drooping head can't raise itself high enough to look anyone in the eye, even his little group of friends.

They sit down a few chairs away from me. They scrape their chairs on the floor and bang their trays on the table.

"I knew it," says Evan. "I knew it the moment I looked at him..."

"How can you tell someone is gay by looking at them?" says Ahmaad. His fat fingers grab the crackers off Oscar's tray. "How was I supposed to know he was a faggot?"

I listen to them talk and drink my minestrone soup.

When I finish the soup, I get up, go to the recreation room, pick up the phone that sits on the table for the patients to call and receive calls, and dial my home number.

She picks up on the third ring.

"Mama."

"Yes? Is everything okay?"

"Yes. Everything's fine. I just want to come home."

"I know... But you have to stay. You have to get better."

"Mhm... Just another day. And then I'm coming home after that, okay?"

"No. You'll come home when the doctor says you're ready," she says. "We need you to follow the doctor's orders. He knows better than we do what's best for you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Is there anything else?"

I pause. Then I say, "Yeah, can you call the nursing station and tell the nurse there that I want to talk to her? Alone?"

"Why?"

"I just want to talk to her."

"Okay. I'll call right now."

"Thank you. Bye."

I hang up the phone. I ignore everyone who passes by me as I return to my room. I sit on the bed and draw the blanket around me. This place is so cold.

I hear footsteps.

"Larissa? Are you okay, sweetie?"

It's Dana, one of four nurses on duty today. I like her. She's got tall studded black boots on, curly hair piled high like a mountaintop sitting on her head, and long dangly earrings. She sits at the chair beside my bed.

"Hi Dana."

"Your mom just called and told me you want to talk to me. Is everything okay?"

"Yes."

"What's bothering you, hun?"

"I heard Ahmaad, Evan, Harry, and Oscar talking at the dining table."

Her brow furrows. "Okay..."

"I heard them say they're having sex with each other in their room at night."

She looks shocked. "Oh no, dear! They're not. Trust me, the nurses would know if they were. Don't worry about that."

"I know, but they're telling Alistair that they _are_."

She looks puzzled.

"Don't worry, honey, I promise you that the nurses know exactly what each of you are doing at every hour of the night. We check up on you guys... Sweetie, you have to remember where you are. These people are not the kinds of people you're used to. But you're a strong girl and you'll be fine."

"I'm not worried about that, exactly," I say. "It's just that when they were talking about Alistair, something seemed wrong. I just got this bad feeling..." I clench the blanket around me closer, trying to figure it out.

"What bad feeling, honey? What seemed wrong?"

"They're ganging up on him..." I think back to what they said and then I start to understand. "Yeah, they're telling him they're having an orgy in their room after the lights are out for the night!"

She stares at me, uncomprehending.

"They're bullying him, Dana!" I say. "They're teasing him because he's gay."

Her face changes.

"Is there anything you can do to stop it?" I ask. "He doesn't know they're lying. They're teasing him by telling him all the stuff they're doing in their room at night after the lights are out for the night. Is there _anything_ you can do?"

Dana sets her mouth into a line.

"Yes, I'll take care of this," she says. "Don't worry about a thing, sweetheart, and I won't let them know it was you who told me."

"Thank you, Dana."

She gets up. To my surprise, she gives me a kiss on the forehead.

"You've done the right thing, Larissa. Now get some rest."

She leaves. I bury myself deep under the blanket that my aunt brought me from home. I try to fall asleep, but I can't get those four guys out of my head.

Later that night, I dream that Ahmaad, Oscar, Harry, and Evan sneak out of their room, get past the nursing station and past Fiona's bed.

They get to me. They try to drag me by my hair out of my bed, pull me up by my arms and pick me up and carry me out to the nursing station. I shriek and call for my father. They set me in front of all the patients, the doctors, the nurses, and my family and friends from school. They stand around looking at me. They whisper, "It's really too bad. She was just trying to do the right thing."

Ahmaad takes a knife out of his pocket and stabs me in the chest, over and over again. I look down at my hands, see dark blood, and sink to the floor in a widening pool of it.

When I wake up from my dream, I bite my fingers so I won't scream.

**Minor Benefactors**

Luke Sawczak

The first time I come down from the mountain is to make a journey to Bethlehem by bus. I got the idea when I read about King David and realized I hadn't been anywhere in this holy country. So I leave the residence. I cross through the Student Village, past three shrubby little gardens each with its name on a plaque, the name of some minor benefactor of the Diaspora, mauve hoses snaking through them to keep them alive. I walk through the garbage road to the Arab buses, and sail to Bethlehem. A Palestinian taxi driver and I end up eating knaffa together—hot, sweet dough and melting white cheese.

A few days later is the first time we go to the Old City, a family of roommates minus Lyera. We enter by a gate we did not intend: the Lions' Gate, beside Temple Mount. I have seen the walls of this place from a distance: massive blocks in massive stacks with battlements to crown them. Where the ground is uneven, beige rock strata jut out to interrupt the wall for a space, rocks covered in golden fur. Seoren says it looks like Disneyland.

On the inside I grant it does. We dodge cars heading through the Lions' Gate. Seoren reads the Arabic plaque inside the gate: "It's not the same, guys," he reports. "It says 'Warrior Gate'." The narrow street is walled, and windows stand in the walls. Someone guesses that they're residences, but no doors are visible.

Seoren and I go in search of the Armenian Quarter. There are big old cobblestones underfoot we keep nearly slipping on. The walls of the buildings grow higher, the alley narrower.

The first door we find is St. Someone's Greek Catholic recess, but you have to pay to get in, so we move on. The next is a little Greek Orthodox joint built into the wall, the site, says a sign, of Jesus's imprisonment before Pilate. A tour group bustles past us and in, and a black-frocked priest receives them.

Seoren and I peek in: in the middle, a set of stairs ascending to somewhere flooded with natural light; on its left flank, a set descending to a heavy small door. Over the first set hangs a sign reading NO ENTRANCE, so we go down the stairs on the left, but a priest approaches us from behind to tell us if we are not Greek we cannot enter. We are hustled out the door, and I look over my shoulder to see a boy slipping in behind us, not more than eleven, carrying a bicycle on his shoulders like a cross; he climbs up the middle set of stairs beneath NO ENTRANCE. Seoren directs my attention to a woman sitting on a step smoking.

Eventually we come to some signs marking the Stations of the Cross, so we follow them. "I can't believe they turned us away," Seoren says in his Persian accent. "Not Greek? What is this?"

We keep walking. By and by we get lost: the streets make sharp turns and twist into funny little squares and long sets of steps heading up, up, to who knows where. On one of them a car is parked, back tires on one step and front tires on another. The roadway buckles and unbuckles, adopts roofs and disowns them. Finally we start to see manned stalls and tables, most with fridges of Coke and XL Energy Drink.

At one of them a man in Western attire is selling daggers. I pick up a knife-sized box with the Himalayas painted on and something scribbled over in black marker.

"A hundred and twenty shekels," says the man. A hundred and twenty? That sounds like a lot...

I pick a number: "I wouldn't pay more than forty for this."

He hesitates. His eyebrows manoeuver around his face. "How much more than forty you have?"

"Sorry, but not more than forty. Look at the box," I say. "We can clearly get this anywhere." That's probably true.

"More than forty."

Seoren steps in. "He only brought forty," he lies. The man looks at Seoren and, only vaguely interested in the dagger, I take the chance to walk away up the long steps. Seoren follows.

My first haggling experience, I think. Maybe next time I should be more conservative. They just won't sell if you go too low. I pull my map out of my pocket and study the close-up of the Old City. Seoren looks up at a sign in Arabic and tries to figure out where we are. If we can only get to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we might from there find a way to the Armenian Quarter...

"Okay, guys, guys," says a voice suddenly. The man is running up the steps after us. "You buy for forty or not?"

A few minutes later, Seoren and I meet the rest of our makeshift family by chance at a falafel restaurant. We all sit down to eat, except I'm not hungry. I show them the box. Somehow they've seen several corners of the Old City, and they weren't even trying to get anywhere in particular.

*

The Star of David has to be gold, says my grandma. She could just buy one in Canada, but she wants "the real thing", made in Jerusalem. I've put it off for weeks, but one day after eating hummus in the Jewish Quarter with my Biblical Hebrew class I find myself on Chain Street, the street of jewellers. So I go hunting for the star.

Once again I have to haggle, but this time it won't be so easy. I'm alone, for one thing. And I have to guess what my grandma likes. I don't even have a clue how to tell real gold from fake. There's competition on every side, hungry eyes wanting me to buy their wares: thousands upon thousands of trinkets sit on floors, sit on shelves, hang from ceilings; uncountable rosaries and crosses, bulk candies and Stars of David, kippehs and carven cats, chains of silver and fridges of Coke, twisted plastics and sunglasses, shirts with pro-Israel, anti-Israel Defence Forces slogans, all shining and gleaming and looking to be overpaid for.

I make my way to the shade under the overhang at the top of the street, and on an impulse step inside a shop where a hefty bald jeweller stands behind a counter, chewing a strange fruit, rows of gold objects pinned to the wall behind him. "I'm looking for a gold Star of David," I say.

"My friend, my friend," he replies, "I have many Stars of David." He gestures to one of the rows on the wall. I study it.

"Are they pure gold?" I reluctantly ask.

" _Pure_ gold?" he says. "My friend, my friend, I don't have _gold_ always!"

I stare at him in bewilderment.

"Okay," he sighs, "wait here, my friend, I will get some." First he scribbles his name and address on a business card for me in case I escape, then he huffs out of his store, over to some neighbour, leaving me alone with his strange fruits and fake gold.

He comes back in under a minute. "See?" he says, holding out his hand like an excited child. Inside is a little twisty star, the arms beaten and rough. "Fourteen karats. Five hundred fifty."

I realize how expensive this is going to be, more than my grandma gave me, and tell him I need to consult with my grandma before I buy anything. He interprets this as haggling. "Five hundred," he says.

Now that the price is beginning to drop, I am suddenly aware that I didn't come here intending to buy anything. If I had, I'd have brought more than the four hundred shekels in my wallet. I tell him this. "Four hundred fifty, for you," he replies.

"No, no, I only _have_ four hundred! And I need to consult with my grandma first," I haggle by accident. "Could you show me the way out of the Old City?"

This is the biggest blow of all. "Okay, okay, my friend," he says quickly, "three hundred eighty, I give it to you now. It's my first sale of the day, special price." But since he's being unhelpful I start walking. "Three hundred fifty!" he calls after me. "Three hundred fifty, my friend!"

I feel a little rush of power when I realize the price was manipulated without my having intended it to: I was just being honest. But even this is too much if I'm not sure my grandma will like it. And besides, how do I know it _is_ gold?

I go down a step, out from under the dark roof overhead into the sunlight, and into the next shop. I ask the young man if he has pure gold, and he says no, but go down a little ways and I will find what I am looking for.

Here's the shop he must have meant. It has signs all over saying it's real gold, and inside the wall it's a much bigger shop, with glass display tables for the jewellery. The man behind the counter has crooked, snaky teeth. He says the government of Israel has authorized him to sell real gold, and I figure, eh, he would've been busted by now if he was a crook. So I ask to see a Star of David.

He points to the display table in front of him. I see the very same one the other guy's shop had. "Normally eight hundred," he says, lifting it out and setting it on top of the table, "but for you my friend, six hundred, just this once."

I feel very resolute now, and reach for the only number I know. "No, my absolute limit for this is three hundred fifty. I won't pay any more than that. I don't need it right now anyway, so if you don't want three hundred fifty for it I'll just go."

He hesitates. "For five hundred fifty, you get it," he says. "I tell you what, it's my first sale of the day, so this is special price, just for you."

"No, it's _not_ your first sale," I rebuke him; "everyone says that. But thanks anyway. Three hundred fifty is all I'll pay."

"My friend, I can't do that. I pay four hundred fifty to get it..."

"That's ridiculous. Now, three hundred fifty or not?"

He sighs at last and I buy it for three hundred fifty shekels—most of my wallet, and more than my grandma gave me for both charm and chain.

As he wraps up the gift in paper and sets it in a little plastic box, the first jeweller walks into the shop, sees me, and grins.

"So, you go to my brother's shop, eh?"

*

Swimming in the Dead Sea is weird. It's like physics is broken when we lie on our backs in the water. It's impossible to sink or dive. It feels slimy, and it stings Lyera. In under half an hour the novelty has floated away, which is okay because they tell you not to swim in it too long. It's not refreshing, just neat, and they make you shower in freshwater afterwards. We almost miss the tour bus back to Jerusalem because I shower so long, and the driver has to come find me: "What the hell happened?"

The bus drops us at the wide entrance of the Beautiful Gate, which faces west out of the Old City onto massive hotels and the rich quarter, Mamilla. They have a store there called Lord Kitsch. Vehicles and pedestrians pour in and out by the great stone fortress that announces the Armenian Quarter.

It's an hour's walk from the student village, and I nearly fainted climbing a mountain before our flotation in the Dead Sea. So we duck into little hole in the wall called Sammy's something or other for French onion soup and hummus—everything is with hummus in Israel, for better or for worse—and then go to scout out taxis. By the gate we peer out at the spread of palms and traffic. I'm almost refreshed enough to think I can walk back, but Lyera is adamant. So we retreat to the row of white Mercedes-Benzes.

A driver jogs up to us. "Where are you going?" he asks. A few others lean on their doors—all these beautiful cars beneath the towering stone wall—and wait for their turn to feed.

"Mount Scopus."

"Fifty shekels," he immediately replies.

We've taken taxi rides this distance and longer for forty, so we tell him forty.

"Standard is fifty," he says.

"Okay, well, there are like seven or nine other taxis. We'll just get one of them for forty."

"Ask! Ask!" he says. "Look, I ask for you." He jogs over to one of his colleagues and says, "Hey, Youssef, how much for Mount Scopus?"

"Fifty shekels," replies Youssef.

"You see?"

"We'll go for forty."

He pauses to evaluate the impasse.

A grizzled old taxi driver with a grey beard steps away from his own car under the bright sunlight and walks slowly over. He puts one hand on my shoulder and one on Lyera's and starts walking us to his cab. "I will take you for forty-five," he says.

We let ourselves be walked, but I'm still uneasy. "We'll go," I insist, "for forty."

We're at his car. A man from the restaurant sits on his chair, watching us from a distance. Our driver turns around, puts his hand on the hood, and looks at us. Shrugging, he says, "Eh, five shekels discount for you, it's five shekels discount for me, too."

I have no reply—in fact I'm still only on the cusp of understanding what he means by "discount for me". Lyera opens the door and ushers me into the taxi. "Come on," she says. "It's all right."

The old man nods, climbs in, and pulls out of the Beautiful Gate, down into the sunlight.

*

Towards the end of my time in Jerusalem, I become nostalgic. I get the urge to acquire a prayer shawl. So much of Jerusalem is fake—fake as the stone façades on every wall. I came here expecting to find the little walled village on a hill David conquered or the Roman town where Jesus told Pilate about a non-earthly kingdom. I've been to so many religious sites without feeling anything, I'm beginning to doubt they can really be where the thing happened. But though buildings and plaques are dead, the spirit is alive. If it's worn by someone who really believes when they pray, then a prayer shawl is the real thing, the habit of prayer. That's the mindset I've wandered into. I have the crazy idea that I'll actually get my hands on the shawl of an Orthodox Jew, perhaps a rabbi. What am I gonna do, ask?

It's days before I make a serious attempt to buy one. It's early in the morning, maybe a Friday, in the Old City near Chain Street. It's as hot as ever. I wonder if it ever spontaneously rains here. Clouds do stop by from time to time. Where can I find a shawl? I pass a woodcarver's shop and instantly recognize a dozen of the figures I've seen scattered in shops around the Old City; I assume this guy is the Source, the Origin of all. I walk in.

The shop is one little room that bends around a corner, but there must be a thousand wooden creatures on the shelves. A patient old man sits behind the counter, watching me walk along the walls. I pass people, emblems, animals—mostly animals.

Here are some tiny sheep, each made of two different woods, or just one wood stained. One of them looks like a good fit for our nativity scene; our incumbent sheep is missing one of its hind legs. "Twenty shekels?" I ask the woodcarver.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Ten."

Outside his shop is a fabric and clothing seller, his narrow, brightly lit shop filled with shirts, rugs, and prayer shawls suspended from the ceiling. The overweight middle-aged man looks very realistic on his chair at the back. I go in and ask to see a prayer shawl, a real prayer shawl.

"Is _this_ a prayer shawl?"

"No, that is a rug."

He retrieves a prayer shawl from a box in a secret storage area and lets me look. It's white with blue edges, blue stripes, and blue Hebrew letters. Looks kind of fake to me, some kind of nylon. I bite my lip and consider it. No, I think, there must be some more authentic shawl somewhere in this place. I can find one.

I thank him, promise I'll probably be back, and lose my train of thought. Walking down the street, the colours and smells, the faces are like those of a dream. Surreality sets in and I shamble off to the Christian Quarter in search of adventures. There are some odd streets in the Christian Quarter, nestled off to one side and somehow perpetually ascending.

I find a huddle of antique shops and step into one; perhaps I'll buy a rusting copper dagger from millennia ago and stuff it into my suitcase.

The store is dark and musty as a vision. The Hebrew-speaking owner keeps his eyes on me while I scan various epochs. There's a dagger: "That one is iron," he says. "Before nine hundred BC." I peer closely at a weirdly hooked implement: "Persian. Yehud Medinata."

"What century is that?"

"Fourth century BC."

"And these here—are they older or newer?"

"Pardon me?"

"Are these, uh, weapons here older than that one or newer?"

He smiles. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"Are they from an earlier age? Or later?"

"Pardon me, sir?"

"...than this other one?"

"I don't follow, sir."

I realize he doesn't really speak English; he speaks sales pitches insusceptible to variation.

I go back to the evil instrument. "How much for this one?"

"Oh, yes, I see. Pardon me. Twelve hundred dollars."

"Not shekels but—?"

"Dollars."

I can see in his smug look that he knows I'm too young to afford it. In fact, as it happens, I am not. But I slowly back my way out of the understanding that I'm interested. He says, "The government has authorized our antiques to leave the country."

The next trial comes in another of these odd alleyways, another of these grey, dingy dry canals whose stairs are made into slopes by the pouring of asphalt. But the top of this one, I can see, is a dead end. The trial comes in the form of a group of young men sitting around a table smoking.

I try to be inconspicuous. "Hey, American," one calls out. "Hey, come over here."

"No thanks."

"Come on! I have something to sell you."

"No thanks," I repeat, walking by.

"Hey! Hey! I'm talking to you!"

But I walk on.

At the top of this alleyway I find a little candy store, one of dozens or hundreds. I perceive a little exit to the alleyway after all, snaking away into a residential area.

No one is in the close-walled shop to guard its tables and wooden bins of unusual candies. Most of the candies are coated in powdered sugar. I walk from table to table and examine them for the next three minutes, debating whether or not I'd get away scot-free if I took a single candy and ate it.

Instead I withdraw five shekels from my wallet.

Finally a greasy young man emerges from around a corner painted light blue, wiping his hands on his pants. A stink accompanies him. When he sees me, his face registers surprise and concern. I will never forget this. I try to ask him which candy is best, but he cannot understand. I ask again, but he doesn't even have sales pitches. At a loss, I pick up a gelatin candy that leaves little white marks on my fingers and hold it up so he can see. He nods.

I reach out my handful of shekels. His eyes go wide in astonishment and he raises his hands, palms to me, shakes his head. "No!" he says. "No!"

A true Israelite, in whom there is no falsity. Something in his face, not in the words he doesn't have, tells me this is what he means. I have not touched his possessions, and so they are mine. I smile my gratitude, place the candy in my mouth, leave the store, and head back down the way I came. The haze of the afternoon horizon thickens.

As I pass, one of the young men gets up from the table and steps over to stand in my way. He says, "Hey, American."

I stop.

"Why did you just walk away? While I was talking to you, why didn't you stop?"

The riddle of the Sphinx, I think.

"Because... I know I don't want what you're selling me."

He hesitates. He throws a glance back to his friends. They smoke and look at each other.

I have spoken truly. He stands aside that I may pass down the sloping alley.

The foot of the alley becomes an intersection.

Impossibly, it is the entrance to the Jewish Quarter.

*

Of all that passed that day, this I remember. Somehow I have acquired an XL—it's as common as Coke—and a block of slippery halva in plastic. On my left is a big shop with a narrow door. On my right shawls and shirts hang all the way up the wall.

A boy who can't be my age stands in his shop, and I enter.

"What are you looking for, my dear friend?" he asks gently. "Ah: I know. You are looking for a prayer shawl!"

"Well, yes."

"You can put down your XL—ah, _yes_ , you love XL!—and your halva. Here. They'll be safe."

I comply and step into the shop. Why not now? I think. It's about time I bought a prayer shawl.

"But not just any prayer shawl," he coos. "You are, I think... a Christian!"

"Well, yes."

"Ahhh! Jesus loves you!" He is grinning from ear to ear.

He bends over backwards and reaches into a box. Soon a large shawl unfolds in my hands. It feels very fake, and it has a verse from the New Testament stitched into it, right in the middle.

"No, no," I say firmly, "not a Christian one. A Jewish one."

"Ahhh! The real thing!"

He replaces the shawl in some mysterious location and produces a new one from nowhere. It is the same blue and white one the realistic man had in his narrow shop. But I don't see any Hebrew on it.

"I'm interested."

"Six hundred shekels, my dear friend. The best price."

I have become a seasoned haggler. Do well once and you know it all. "Absolutely not."

"You are very wise, my dear friend. Five hundred and fifty shekels."

Somewhere in the back of my head I feel the sickening realization that I don't know the value of the shawl. "Much less than that. Two hundred."

"I love you!" he bursts out. "But not two hundred. Five hundred."

Confusion and amusement pass over my face. "Yes, two hundred."

"I love you!" he says again, apparently unable to contain himself. "Two hundred and fifty."

I hesitate. It's less than half of what he began with. This is the best I'll get, I decide, so I accept.

"My dear friend, you want something else?"

"No, I..."

"A shirt!"

After a second, I let him show me a shirt. He pulls one down from above, an innocent white shirt with blue running down the front, and a low neck. He holds it up against me.

"Oh! I love it!" he cries. "It looks so good on you!"

I flub the opening: "How much is it?"

"For you? Nine hundred shekels."

"T—" I start. "One hundred fifty."

" _Four_ hundred fifty. And I buy you XL next time I see you. We will drink XL together."

I begin to doubt myself, and feel my feet physically slipping, but spending a total of only seven hundred shekels seems somehow pretty good. "Uh... I don't have that on me."

"Ha ha! I love you! My friend has a bank. You have credit, yes?"

"Debit."

He's taken aback for a second. Finally: "Come with me."

"You know, you shouldn't be so happy about haggling when you're so bad at it," I advise him.

He takes me over to the "bank", a dark shop and a high counter behind which a grubby man waits. I hand over my card. The man behind the counter doesn't speak English, and asks the man whose dear friend I am to tell him what I must pay. A dubious transaction is made. A shawl and shirt are mine.

We walk back to the shop to pick up the goods. I reach for my XL and halva. "My dear friend," he gloats, "don't you want to buy something else? A kippeh, to go along with your shawl!"

"Well..."

I look at the pile of kippehs of all colours. He picks up a crocheted blue and white one with a Star of David in the centre, the colour of the Israeli flag. "Twenty shekels," he coos.

Twenty is nothing compared to seven hundred, I reason. And that much I have in my pocket.

He waves me out the door, calling for the millionth time, "I love you!"

*

The next few days are a haze. I remember walking back from the Old City on a late, weary night. A taxi driver on the Mount of Olives who warned me of fighting in the streets that required me to go with him to save my very life. I remember roaming the Armenian Quarter, descending into ceramic shop after ceramic shop, Lyera telling me even if the shirt _was_ cotton it wouldn't be worth a hundred dollars, nor it and the shawl together a hundred and seventy-five. A children's street band in Mamilla. Countless evenings in the cool of the streets trying vaguely, frantically to pray. Giving the shirt to Simmon for his mum, forgetting I already promised it to my own mum, reclaiming it, the generous smile she put on when I gave it to her. Staggering from stall to stall in the blazing sun, buying in place of my heart a taqiyah, a keffiyeh, a black kippeh, searching and apologizing to everyone; the dinner Seoren cooked for the family that night, hawks and vultures who screeched at me and pushed and pulled me into their stores, who begged me to see that I needed their wares; returning to the bank to ask stupidly had I really been charged only seven hundred.

Camel rides. Forgetting my halva in the shop of the pythonic young con man, returning intentionally for it—stumbling unintentionally in more times than I care to count, facing the horrible countenance of competence; being lured and trapped in the shop across from his by a big man whose girth blocked the exit, squeezing past at last. Telling the young Hebrew he had cheated me: it was a woman's shirt! "We will drink XL together," he told Lyera and me, and I hissed, "I don't like you!" The anger, the shame, the lowered voice; the sitting in my lonely Jerusalem room: the sympathy of my apartment family.

I remember the scene a thousand different ways. "I've seen the price tag on the shawl. Twenty-four shekels and sixty agorot. I'll give you twenty-five for it."—"Look! There _is_ Hebrew on it! It begins 'Baruch atah'! So you not only cheated me, you lied to me."—"A hundred, _maybe_ a hundred, for both shirt and shawl. And kippeh too!"—"How _dare_ you tell me Jesus loves me!"

How _dare_ you!

The long and winding maze I can't escape that leads always to your door. Flashes of sliced sunlight through the metal blinds on my window, the heavy iron door. Hot mornings, cold nights, and the elevator stuffed with seven drunken students on Shabbat, a call home across Lake Ontario, across the Atlantic, across the Mare Nostrum. Canada. My father.

"Seven hundred _shekels_? That _is_ kind of hard to swallow.... Think of it this way. It had to happen sooner or later. You learned an essential life lesson, and you could have learned it the hard way. You could have spent ten thousand dollars on a car worth three hundred. Or even a fancy dinner you could have had with Lyera, a really fancy dinner, that's all a hundred and seventy-five dollars is. Think of it this way: it must cost a fortune to own a place in the Old City. They _have_ to overcharge tourists just to survive. You're helping him out, in that sense. Hey, don't take it so hard."

"I should have known not to go in when he said Jesus loved me. That's when I should have known, right off the bat. That's what they all tell you."

"One dinner, that's all you're losing."

Yes, dinner with a snake, dinner and the XL he said he'd buy me. Good God, what a fool! Yes, I helped him out, furnished him with seven hundred shekels for shawl and shirt! And a goddamn crocheted kippeh with a blue Star of David on it! Call me a philanthropist. Yes, plant me a little shrubby garden with my name in Hebrew on a plaque! In the student village, beyond the laundromat, beyond the lovers and laptop-users, beyond the gritty bench and the exercise machine park, beyond the courtyard with its high wall, the low hill like a lion's back, to the Golden Dome, to the Source and Origin of all—pick a spot—plant my garden!

**The Tobacco Defenestration**

Trevor Abes

I'm sitting in a vanilla bean office chair next to my bedroom window on the twenty-eighth floor of my postmodern apartment complex, Sonatina, where there's never any music playing. The chair used to belong to my uncle: he died from asbestos in the university where he served as professor, from drinking whiskey and from smoking cigarettes. He liked Dunhills, the ones with a crimson stripe on the filter.

I'm smoking a cigarette with a blue stripe on the filter, a beer-and-a-smoke kind of cigarette that imprints on my lungs a hot patch tingle. Not a Dunhill, a Canadian Classic. The pack has snow on it.

Despite the warmth of an atomic orange hoodie and thick green-scale lumberjack-chequered pyjama pants, I'm sick as a parrot on a three-day saltine bender. My nostrils are dripping. Wiggly phlegm is coalescing in my throat.

The wind tends to blow in on the twenty-eighth floor, and I've taken precautions. There's a pair of dark blue skinny jeans slotted under the door with a wet Martha Stewart-striped towel to prevent smoke swirls from sliding into the living room where Mom and Dad are on the Internet. A plastic fan whizzes against the breeze—blades speckled with soot and ash because I only look at them when they're spinning—and I try to exhale into it from behind, into the window.

I don't know it's my last cigarette. At a more basic and less demanding location in my brain, where the fundamental processes that keep me alive are carried out by idiots and country bumpkins, I've known for a while. I've felt the tipping point approaching on piles of guilt and cancer-Googling.

I smoke by the window nightly; otherwise, I'd have to step onto the terrace in coat and shoes, count airplanes and risk getting sick. My window opens max eight inches sideways, compressing air into a fanned-out stream of needle-thin icicles. The ground floor probably has windows that open farther. I butt out in a clay ashtray that's traveled with me from South America to the Caribbean to Toronto and smell my fingers before readying for bed.

Falling asleep is not pleasant. My last puff is twenty minutes gone and my mind is fucking the brains out of its memory to make it come back. I think about how cancerous chemicals will be cannonballing with each piss and I feel cleansed, jittery, like my unshaven antibodies, seven years nicotine's bitches, are beginning to shake off the warm tar of my dreamy addiction mellowing their violent natures and allegiance to me. On the dresser, the television is on to blanket the rustling of the vertical blinds; my window isn't hermetically sealed. I prefer the voices of sportscasters; reporting deaths makes them uncomfortable. Even though deep down I don't want to quit and would rather die at fifty-five after a solid thirty-eight of lung-crunching bliss, I close my eyes to the Score's _Games of the Night_ and whisper "Max Pacioretty... Max Pacioretty... Max Pacioretty" because his name sounds like peanut butter.

Three a.m. and my kidneys can suddenly work. I'll be up in the middle of the night for months pissing tobacco ooze, hurriedly in an attempt to preserve the half-dazed haze of sleep. I flip my pillows over and push my toes out into the lip-cracking cold, then back under, searching for temperature equilibrium. My bed is three feet tall, old enough to weigh noticeably more than it did new. I block the television's glare with a carefully placed fold of comforter that'll stay still only if I do and instantly want to turn on my side; I will put out for thick sweet smoke like that fat chick on _Maury_ that fucked strangers for cheeseburgers. It's when I recognize the script and realize that _SportsCentre_ , which I flipped to when _Games of the Night_ looped over, has looped over too that I set the sleep function to 90 minutes and trail away into a one-shot withdrawal nightmare.

I'm running in the dark across a field of Kentucky bluegrass; it's windy and oak leaves are whistling to hide the sound of their branches knocking boots. Chasing me is Trent Reznor with a sawed-off shotgun. His eyes, stretched wide with alt-rock, proto-Marilyn-Manson lunacy, are as level as a Steadicam. He is dressed in black rags arranged into a sleeveless tee and leather pants simulacrum. I don't know what he wants or what I've done to put us in this predator-prey context.

Fifty yards ahead there's a shoddy wooden garage with a jeep in it; the shingles resemble a violated honeycomb. The inside smells of mould and disintegrated root beer. In the corner by the left headlight, a scythe, a rake, and a hoe lean together like the arse of a bar joke. I see Reznor through a crack in the wall. He giggles feigned dejection. His combover is smoother than the top of his skull and his bangs touch nostril in a languid droop. I inch around to put the car between us; the crisp chuck-chuck of the loading gun affords me the instant I need to get under the jeep while he circles it. My plan is to crawl with Reznor's feet so we shift dirt and gravel at the same time à la Tim Robbins in _The Shawshank Redemption_.

I wake up in the vicinity of 10 a.m. in a fit of deathy pangs, shaking like there's a midget in my midsection trying to push himself out my skin by striking a kneeling ta-da! pose. My stomach wants coffee and three cigarettes for breakfast, but all I can handle from the fridge is Minute Maid fruit punch juice boxes cut with a double shot of tap water. I lie down again and take short, frequent sips watching the highlights I listened to through my comforter the previous night.

Refusing lunch I pace from my bedroom door to the kitchen thirty feet away and back; my stomach is dilating with bubbles of citric acid and it tugs for eggs Benedict, the exercise is distracting, and outside is full of other people. Artaud thought he could feel his blood flowing: I'm sure the full-body clench I feel on my two-thousandth step is the toxin exodus doubling in numbers. I plop on the couch to rest burning calves and close my eyes and convince myself I'm wilting while I pound fruit punches. The couch is brown, a poor man's velvet, but it may as well be the real thing; I have only a moderately certain idea of velvet's texture. I watch a two-day _Top Gear_ marathon on BBC America, and it heals me like a forehead smash from Benny Hinn.

The staple of British television assuages my sensitivity, which has heightened considerably since the previous evening. I jump at dishes clinking in the sink; the microwave's quintuple beep keeps sounding off minutes after it's finished; I tear up when I see Andy Roddick winning the U.S. Open on _SportsCentre_ 's Top 10 segment entitled "The Top 10 Tennis Celebrations"; I forget to breathe when a lady from Omaha can't think straight in the perennial brightness of _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire_ and answers "bunting" when she knows it's "pennants" in the U.S. of A.

There's confrontation and emotional stirrings from every energy source except _Top Gear_ 's James May, Richard Hammond, and Jeremy Clarkson, a trio medicinal by ubiquity: when the first two wish Clarkson would die for his unending smugness and systematic racism, they say it in jest.

The episode I'm watching challenges the men to drive hot hatchbacks from Lucca to Canelli, Italy foraging individually for each of the following items: a dog, a CD from a service station (which has to be purchased without leaving the car), a branch from a cedar tree, some ice, a picture with as many people he can fit inside the car, a bicycle, and a vine.

My mother, sitting at the beige and swamp-green dining table, asks me how I'm doing with a pause on the word "doing" that signifies "How are you doing at this stage in the smoking cessation process?"

"I'm dying."

"What can I do to help?" she asks.

"I'll think."

She sits next to me and learns what a cedar tree looks like and I have a good shuddering cry for the first time in years.

At 9 p.m., I stand and stretch to the episode when Clarkson is caught fucking a black Alfa Romeo in the show's military-green hangar/studio at the BBC. Hammond and May go for the obvious "What the hell are you doing?" and Clarkson says, "An Alfa Romeo."

In the shower, the water is stabby but steaming. There are two frilly carpets on the floor but no safety mat in the tub. The midget trying to rip my skin decides at the end of my three-minute shampoo to dig a hole as an alternate escape route. He places his knuckles on my sternum and kneads; it doesn't so much hurt as waddle on a cellular level. I put a cheek against the cold yellow tile on the wall and pretend I'm in a spa that offers ice baths as well as a sauna.

Pyjamas pre-warmed in the drier, Napanee Home Hardware t-shirt and beige and maroon chequered pants, I beam with post-shower tickle for the same seven seconds that that bucket of water felt good on James Hetfield's face after he stepped into those fireworks in Montreal in 1992. I say goodnight to my parents at a quarter past 10 p.m. to decrease my odds of relapsing on the first day. The blinds are still grinding like reggaeton dancers. I smell my fingers and get Dove.

**One of Those Days  
**

Katherine Luczynski

I sit in my futon in my bedroom and flick through Facebook status updates on my iPhone. The sun streams through the blinds and brightens my already bright yellow-painted room.

My iPhone starts buzzing and a number I don't recognize flashes across the top of the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Katherine? I'm calling from MIJO about the closed captioner position you applied for a few weeks ago. Your resume looks great! Could you come in for an interview this coming Monday?"

"Hello, yes. That sounds wonderful."

We work out the details. The interview is Monday at 9 a.m.

"Ahhhh! I got an innnnnterview! I am da booooooomb!" I sing and jump around on my futon.

*

Fast-forward to Monday.

"Fuck! It's 7:50 already?!" I scream and grab my travel mug, filled to the brim with coffee, and rush out the door, much to the dismay of my black and white cat Kiki, who spent the last half-hour making figure-eights around my legs. I'm not wearing pantyhose, so at least my legs aren't covered with fur. Instead, they're covered in hives. I only found out about my cat allergy after getting Kiki, but I could never give her up.

I jet down the stairs and run across the parking lot to my black Echo. Kipling Station is only about a twenty-minute drive from my condo. I can make it. I can totally make it.

*

"Shit!" I scream. I slam my steering wheel and hit the brakes. My car screeches to a halt at the fifth red light.

I'm only at Dundas and Tomken, not even halfway to Kipling. It's 8:15 a.m. My interview is downtown at 9 a.m.

The next seven lights each turn yellow as I approach them. Normally, I'd speed through them, but every time I've been too far to attempt it without smashing into another car and veering into a pole, building, or bus shelter. "Young woman dies terrifying death by bus shelter." I'd rather avoid that headline.

At 8:30 a.m., I'm circling around the Kipling parking lot. I peer past the wooden fence as I drive outside the lot. Earl, the oh-so-lovely TTC worker, wouldn't let me put my $5 into the machine unless I actually saw a free space. There aren't any spaces.

I'm already late because of those damn red lights, and maybe because I couldn't figure out which shoes worked best with my outfit. I finally settled on my new grey BCBG flats, which only took about half an hour. But those red lights definitely didn't help the situation.

Finally, I see a spot in between two SUVs. I'll just be able to squeeze in. I speed toward the parking lot entrance and press the intercom button.

"I saw a spot, Earl! Let me in!"

"Sorry, ma'am, the lot is full. We can't let you in at this time."

"I just drove around the lot. There's still a space left! Just let me pay. I'm late for an interview!"

"Are you sure you saw a spot?"

"Yes!"

"Because the TTC won't refund your money if it turns out there's no spot."

"Okay. Fine. Whatever. Just let me pay!"

I push my coins into the slot. The gate lifts. I speed down the parking lot and squeeze my car in between the two SUVs.

It's already 8:40 a.m. T minus twenty minutes to my interview. I rush down the stairs and catch the subway just before the _bing_ , _bong_ , _boom_ sounds, and the doors shut behind me. We're off. I tap my foot as the subway speeds into the downtown core.

Okay, pretend interview time:

"So, Katherine, why do you think you'd be a good closed captioner?"

"Well, Adam, I like TV and I like writing, so why not combine the two? Isn't it everyone's dream—to watch TV while doing what they're most passionate about? For me, that's writing."

Boom! Check it! This job is mine!

A weird homeless dude is staring at me and giving me a toothless grin. No thank you, buddy! I'm a lady with a job... almost!

*

Of the millions of times I've been to Queen Station, I've never actually needed to take a bus. The only reason I come to Queen Station is to go shopping at the Eaton Centre. Isn't that why everyone comes here?

MIJO is on Queen Street, but according to Google Maps it's not close enough to walk to from Queen Station.

It's now 9:20 a.m. I called Adam to let him know I'd be late because of a freak accident blocking the subway.

"A pack of wild teenagers had started fighting over the hottest girl in school and one of them, in all his anger, threw his friend's backpack and coat on the subway tracks! Everyone thought he threw his friend on the subway tracks! It was horrible!"

It sounded more believable in my head. Hopefully, Adam doesn't watch the news.

Finally, a bus pulls up. I don't know who runs Google Maps, but I get to MIJO in less than 10 minutes. So much for not being able to walk.

MIJO is in the basement of a small mod-looking building. Adam greets me at the door, wearing tattered jeans and a blue golf shirt. His five o'clock shadow tells me he hasn't shaved for at least two days. I definitely feel stupid for looking for the perfect pair of flats. I'm completely overdressed in my frilly shirt and pencil skirt. I know it and the look he's giving me, tells me that he knows it, too. Well, this is off to a fabulous start.

*

We sit in a small office crammed with boxes of CDs and programming software. Adam asks me a series of questions. Why did I apply to MIJO? Why would I be the perfect fit? What are my worst qualities? The usual trick questions.

"Okay, so everything sounds great! We'll just get you set up with Natalie in the other room so you can do some practice runs. You said you were fluent in French and English, right?" Adam asks as he leads me down a long hallway to a room whose walls are lined with computers.

"Yep," I nod. I don't mention that I'm not completely fluent in French anymore. The last French course I took was a linguistics class that I didn't really understand, but managed to pass. No big deal.

Adam introduces me to Natalie: another fan of tattered jeans.

She leads me to a computer and hands me giant headphones, the kind that you'd see DJs wear around their necks. "So all you have to do is listen to the program and type what you hear into this box. You can't erase, so you need to be sure what you're writing is correct. You can rewind though. Good luck!"

Well, this seems simple enough. What kind of idiot can't write what he or she hears? I press play and a French Nice 'n Easy commercial starts playing. Oh hey! That's the chick who plays Angela on _The Office!_ Damn it! I forgot to listen to what she was saying. I hit the rewind button. Oh jeez, I hate the Quebec accent. It sounds so weird. I try to type exactly what I hear, but it's not making any sense. The commercial ends and I only transcribed half of what I heard. I pound the rewind button. Nothing! Damn it! The next commercial starts playing. Another person speaks to me with a Quebec accent.

I transcribe the next two French commercials as best as I can. Finally, an English cooking show starts. Now this I can do. "The trick to making the perfect linguine is..." I begin transcribing the program.

"Hey, umm, Katherine? Adam's been looking the commercials you've transcribed. He was going to meet with you after you finished, but it looks like his next interviewee is here so he'll give you a call to let you know if you got the job or not," Natalie mumbles before scurrying back to her spot at a computer in the corner.

Great, so I can't even finish my interview. I'm not an interview whiz or anything, but that's definitely not a good sign.

I leave the building. I'm not going to get the job. This is the fifth interview I've bombed.

I don't see any buses coming so I decide to walk back to Queen Station. It wasn't that far on the bus, so it can't be that far of a walk.

Twenty minutes later, I realize that actually, it _is_ a long walk. I'm only halfway there and already my feet are throbbing. Maybe wearing brand-new shoes on a hot day with no pantyhose wasn't the best idea. Come to think of it, my right shoe feels extra soggy. That's weird. Why would one of my feet sweat more than the other? I pull my foot out of my flat.

Ouch! My heel feels like it's raw. I look into my BCBG flat. The entire leather heel is covered in blood. I look at my heel. Layers of skin are missing. Blood is gushing out and dripping onto the sidewalk.

I suddenly feel woozy. My head is spinning, I feel like I'm about to puke, and tiny black dots start to cloud my vision. Looking at blood has never been my strong suit. I look behind me. Still no bus. Okay, I guess I'm walking the rest of the way to Queen Station.

*

By the time I get to Queen Station, my heel feels like someone's been sawing through it with a blunt knife. The blood has now seeped through and stained the grey felt. I had tried to put the back of the flat down so I could wear it less like a flat and more like a slipper, but the sturdy heel wouldn't give. Damn it, BCBG!

I limp down the stairs and walk into the Eaton Centre. I buy flip-flops, Band-Aids, and medicated cream. As soon as I'm inside, I slip off my flats and throw them into my purse. Today, I will be the weirdo person who wears fancy clothes, has a bloody foot, is completely drenched in sweat, and is walking around barefoot inside the Eaton Centre.

Once I get all my supplies, I make my way to the nearest women's washroom. I clean my heel, put on some Polysporin, and stick on a Band-Aid, all without ever looking directly at my heel.

I feel hungry, but I'm not ready for any more stares and girls not-so-quietly whispering, "Did you see that girl? She's wearing pink flip-flops with a pencil skirt!"

I head back to Queen Station. I get off at Yonge-Bloor Station to transfer trains. I give in and walk over to the small kiosk and buy a vitamin water. I head downstairs to catch my next train back to Kipling. Finally, luck is on my side! The train is here. I limp toward the doors.

The train is packed. I lean against the plastic divider nearest to the open doors. _Bing_ , _bong_ , _boom_. I jump. For whatever reason, I wasn't expecting to hear that noise. I look down. The cap of my vitamin water is rolling toward the closing doors... and... there... it... goes.

"The next station is Sherbourne. Sherbourne Station."

The next station was supposed to be Bay.

I'm on the wrong train.

*

Wednesday. I receive an email from Adam.

Hi Katherine,

It was great meeting you. We're finished our interview process and unfortunately we'll be going in a different direction. I wish you all the best with your job hunt!

Adam

**Peaks and Valleys**

Jodelle Faye DeJesus

"Just stay close to the ground," comes a tired call from a foot below.

"Grab the roots of the plants and the trees," I call back.

Crouched nose-to-dusty soil on the steep face of the Scarborough Bluffs, Rustom and I climb higher. I squint up and grin at a flat surface ahead with no visible wall of chalky soil beyond it. "I think that's the top!" I call down.

Rustom rests a foot over a protruding rock, which caves and rolls down. Rustom looks up at me and asks, "Are you sure this time? Because you said the same thing earlier."

"Well, we can always climb down..." I say, looking over Rustom's shoulder. "Or not."

The Bluffs are a geological wonder, a massive escarpment beside Lake Ontario with narrow strips of dusty ridges that stretch from the mountain and blossom into steep hills. The mountain resembles a Gothic cathedral: flying buttresses protrude from the main church structure like spider legs, just as the narrow ridges of sediment branch out from the mountain face. Unlike the neatly designed flying buttresses, the ridges stretch out untidily, as if Lake Ontario has taken giant, messy bites out of the facade.

Sparse dry trees and short tousled weeds sprout from the cliff face. At the foot of the escarpment sits an artificial pond with metal bridges that crisscross over it. The stretch of grass punctuated by dots of trees is littered with clumps of people that resemble colonies of ants from afar. The Bluffs face the descending sun over Lake Ontario.

"There's clearly a path here, so others have already followed this route before. I'm sure there's a way. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Rustom grunts. "Just stay low on the ground. There's been dog poo, too, so I'm guessing even dogs can climb up and down this cliff.... Oh yeah, careful—not all the dried clumps of dirt are really dirt." He grins.

I squeeze the toes of my fabric moccasin flats between the forked branches of a short dry tree growing sideways. I grab its lower stems with one hand, and push my Coach crossbody bag behind my back. A leather bomber jacket protects me from April's chilly breeze. Chalky sediment crusts the knees and shins of my jeans and my hands.

I finished my last undergrad exam that morning, so Rustom and I wanted to celebrate by reading my favourite novel, _Flipped_ by Wendelin Van Draanen, at the Bluffs Park. _Flipped_ is a book about a boy and a girl whose first impressions of each other are tested by a series of events. They realize how wrong they were about each other and their perceptions of each other flip.

I introduced the book to Rustom when I presented it in the class where we first met in our third year of university. Our professor assigned us to bring and discuss a book we hate and a book we love. I brought my worn and stained copy of _Flipped_ , with its cover of an upside-down chick, and gushed about the typesetting.

The book occupies the Herschel backpack now flat against Rustom's sweaty back, along with two water bottles and my McDonald's bacon cheeseburger.

We meant to celebrate by eating cheeseburgers and reading a lighthearted romantic comedy, but decided on a more adventurous route when I spotted the summit of the Scarborough Bluffs, where I had ran around with my high school friends four years ago.

"Oof!"

A slam.

Rustling.

A small avalanche of soil and pebbles.

Clothes skid along the avalanche.

I whip back to see Rustom flat on the ground, sliding down. I stare wide-eyed. "RUS!"

"I'm fine!" he says. The pebbles and dust and soil and dirt stop carrying him down. He hovers over the cliff face and trudges his way back up. "Go, go," he says. "I'm okay."

I climb faster now. If he fell... If he didn't stop rolling down... I reach for the root of another dried plant and reach the top. I crawl onto the round, flat surface, roughly two feet in diameter. Grass outlines the plateau. It slopes to a mound of dirt on one side. I bite my lip.

"Is it the top?" Rustom asks.

I reach for his hand and pull him up. Rustom scrambles to his feet, crouching to keep near the ground. I hold his hand as he plops down on the mound of dirt across from me. I let go.

We sit on the plateau, the tip of a narrow ridge that connects to the mountain.

Rustom's plump lips curl. His thick eyebrows furrow. His prominent nose flares.

"It's pretty, right?" I glance at the horizon, and then back at him. I smile.

He glares at the view past me: Lake Ontario shimmering under the orange sun. Clumps of cloud float lazily, revealing an opalescent blue. Rustom looks from side to side. "Yeah, it's pretty."

I absently pull strands of grass. I convince myself that this bit of scenery is worth risking his earlier fall.... I survey the park below, the sun's reflection on the water, the chalky cliff face. I wonder if I can call 911. My arms feel tired.

Rustom dusts off the knee of his jeans, the right one taking a very solid square shape.

I blink.

Rustom follows my gaze. "Oh," he says, "it's my knee brace. My knee started hurting again, so I've been wearing it."

My jaw gapes. "What? You didn't tell me! I'm so sorry! And you fell!"

He shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed again. "It's not a big deal. It doesn't hurt right now, surprisingly. It only hurts when I walk or run. And it didn't hurt when I fell. Wasn't scary either. It was more like waiting for the soil to stop rolling down."

I reach out—

"I'm okay," he says. Rustom scans the ridge behind him. "Okay, I think we can get across this ridge. We just have to sit and sort of hop on our butts all the way across." He peers down where we came from. "I don't think we can climb down, anyway. That part with absolutely nothing but flat cliff face—it was hard getting up it, going down would be impossible."

I frown. "Rustom, wait. Are you scared? Stop panicking."

He shifts his backpack to his lap, pulls out a water bottle, and gulps it down. "It's okay, I'm just thinking of how to get out of here safe. I don't think this is very safe. How did you and your friends climb this?"

"We didn't go all the way, I told you." I search his face. "Rustom, you're panicking."

Rustom peeks into his bag and rummages inside. "We have to be careful, though. Let me go first. I'm pretty sure we can make it across. We just have to be careful." He peers back down at either side of the ridge. No plants, no bumps, just flat soil all the way down. "If we miss a step, we might roll down and there's nothing to break our fall."

He turns on his seat to scan the narrow strip connecting our plateau to the mountain, at the fifty-foot drop to the bottom of it, never at me.

I will him to look at me, at the scenery behind me, at the beauty of the lake and the sun and the park and the other ridges of the escarpment. "Rustom," I say. He faces me. I swoop in and catch his lips with mine.

Rustom kisses me, pulls away, and peers behind him at the deadly drop.

*

He sat across from me in a booth at Square One's _Moxie's_. He asked me how I was and what was new. I spat stories like bullets—I'd given up rice, I got my first driving lesson from my brother, I was preparing for my England trip at the end of May—punctuated by jokes told in a low, mocking voice and with hands flailing like a stereotypical Italian.

Rustom smiled, laughed, and commented "Yeah", "Well, of course", "Right" when I paused for breaths. He fixed his startlingly chocolate brown eyes at me.

We moved our conversation to _Second Cup_ at Princess Royal Drive and Living Arts Drive over a mug of hot chocolate. He stared down at it, occasionally glancing at my face, while he ploughed through the reason behind meeting me after over a month of no-contact since our breakup in February.

He missed me. He made a mistake. He screwed up. He knew I was willing to compromise on everything where we differed. He was sorry. He wanted a second chance. He wanted to be with me.

We kissed once that afternoon, but I ruled that he could not kiss me again until he earned back his right to call me his girlfriend.

*

I am not his girlfriend.

Rustom and I creep down from the mound of dirt onto the narrow strip of chalky ridge. He and I sit, facing north. We hop across the ridge on our buttocks. I wobble a few times, clamp my hands down, and continue.

I point at the view. "Hey, look, it's pretty, isn't it? Come on, it's pretty cool that we're up here."

"Yeah," he says, glancing up and then back down at the fifty-foot drop on either side of the ridge.

At every other beat, he asks if I'm okay. I mechanically answer yes.

We make it across and climb up the reddish soil. A trail is carved out at the side of the mountain. Rustom climbs first and reaches out his hand to pull me up. We make it up and into a dog park, where two joggers pass us. We stroll along the side, appreciating the height of the drop. We spot a hill at the end of the dog park, the topmost part of the Bluffs, and I recognize it as the one my friends and I sprinted down four years ago.

Rustom scowls. "Don't tell me that's the one you guys climbed? Because that is nothing like what we just climbed."

"No, this is just where we took pictures and ran around. After the retreat we went down to the park and climbed one of the cliff faces like we just did."

We race up the steep hill. We reach the summit. We pick a bald spot of soil to sit down and unpack.

I stuff the bacon cheeseburger in my mouth, rip the brown McDonald's bag and flatten it on the ground. I perch on the flattened brown bag with _Flipped_ at hand.

Rustom sits beside me, knees up to his chest and eyes on the horizon. He smiles. "This is beautiful. Thank you for bringing me here."

"Thanks for driving us. Okay. This is a she-said/he-said book, so you can read Bryce's parts and I'll read Julianna's," I say as I open the first page and hand it to Rustom.

The glossy image of a fluffy, yellow chick dangles upside down against the white paperback cover.

**Insomnia and the Working Girl**

Olivia Matthias

Thursday night

I creep through the dark. Down spiralling stone staircase, a warm cup of green tea steaming in my hand, I step gingerly towards light, and music. New stairs appear out of the dark. I keep walking.

I come to a shelf built into the wall, lit by a single yellow candle.

I set the empty mug beside the candle. Someone has carved an arrow into the candle wax, pointing up. I reach up blindly. A vine swings into my open palm. With my empty mug in my other hand, I grip the vine, hop, and swing forward.

I fly through crisp cool air. Strands of my hair stream over my eyes. The dark fades to grey. When I see light, I release the vine and land on beige porcelain squares.

The squares look familiar. Hey, don't I sweep those every day?

"Glad you could make it."

I turn. Amir, wearing a red suit and a monocle, nods from his seat.

He sits at the head of a long teak table, surrounded by well-dressed people. Our friends. Jericho sits in the middle. He wears a three-piece camouflage-pattern suit. I see Carine, in a high-necked black dress, face framed by a feathered fascinator. Pixie-haired Jodelle in a silk green dress. At the end, Rasheed lounges in a black tux. They turn from each other to face me. Their faces glow under a twinkling yellow chandelier.

They smile as though one told the other a joke and the other expects to laugh. Trevor sits across them, in a grey three-piece suit with a pink tie. Black hair combed, his light green eyes sparkle in the light.

He smiles at me. I smile back and take a step towards the empty seat beside him when I notice Jericho has stood up.

He strides to me and pulls out a yellowed parchment from a green top hat. He hands the parchment to me.

I blink. The letters blur on the page. He pats his palm at a belt and then reaches for his face. He has a pair of bronze goggles where he normally keeps his glasses.

"You need stronger vision," he says. He snaps off the goggles and hands them to me.

I take the goggles, still staring at the parchment. It has lines of black ink, but the letters shift and swirl.

"So, Olivia, as contributors to this book, we all have specific missions to carry out. We will find a way to contact you in the future with your next mission, but for now, your first mission should appear now to you."

Jericho gestures to the parchment.

"Oh," I say, and snap the goggles over my head.

The first line on the parchment firms into readable text: Olivia—mission one: Get dressed for the occasion.

The next lines continue to swirl. No words.

I look down and gasp at my pink bed-wrinkled plaid pajamas. I touch my knotted hair and groan when I feel my bangs. They stick straight up.

I look back at the table, but it and my friends seems farther away. The chandelier blinks. It flashes blue and white.

"The time is 7:30 a.m.," says Jericho. He sighs.

I hear heavy thumping footfalls overhead.

"Erk," says Carine.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Erk!" repeats Carine, louder. "Erk! Erk!"

I frown. My eyes widen.

"ERK! ERK! ERK! ERK!"

The table jumps up. The porcelain tiles fall beneath me, into darkness. I hurtle through a cold gusty tunnel.

I land on my side on something firm.

Friday morning

I groan, push eyelids open and roll over in bed. My phone screen illuminates the dark room with dull blue and white flashes. I roll over and tap it to stop the alarm blares. I roll away, shut my eyes, press my face again into the pillow. I roll back to the phone, and stare at the time on my phone screen. 7:47 a.m.

"Ahhhfuck." I kick my legs out of the blue sleeping bag. The bag whoomps to the floor and I stumble out of bed. I root through a hamper and pull on black leggings, a black skirt, and a black turtleneck.

I sling a shoulder bag on my jacketed shoulder, pad into the kitchen, and grab a soy shake from the fridge. I shove it into my bag as I stride to the living room. I tug my boots on and head outside in the dull grey light towards the subway station.

Friday, late morning

I lean, side against a wall, hand on a computer mouse on the counter in front of me. Square orange lights buzz overhead and illuminate the wooden Gina's Salon sign on the wall behind my back. I rub my eyes.

The phone bleats.

With the toe of my black tennis shoe, I kick a strand of dusty brown hair on the floor aside. The strand clumps around dust and forms a lumpy grey roll. My nose wrinkles and I make a mental note to sweep the front again after this call. I push the corners of my lips into a smile and pick up the receiver. "It's a great day at Gina's! Olivia speaking, how may I help you?" I sing.

"Hi, Olivia, it's Mary. What you so happy about?" Mary's Liverpudlian accent giggles through the crackling connection. I grin and type in Mary's last name into the computer beside me.

"One o'clock, on this Saturday. Is that available?" Mary asks.

I blink at the screen in front of me and mouse over the schedule. "Yup." I click Mary's favourite stylist and punch in the code for a blow dry. "Okay, Mary, I have you saved for Saturday at one with Masha. See you soon."

"Thanks, love, I will." Mary hangs up.

I hang up. I peer at the blue screen on the computer to my left. The hard drive failed last night. I shrug. I walk around to the front of the counter. I look to the front of the shop and watch Lulu in the empty salon. She applies black mascara to her lashes in long, slow upward strokes. I take a step towards the salon and freeze when I see a short, thin, middle-aged blonde woman at the front of the store. She holds a clear face masque tube about six inches from her ice-blue eyes.

"Hi there, did you need any help finding anything?" I stride up to the blonde woman.

"Oh no," she replies dazedly in a strong Polish accent. "I just browse."

I nod and pace back to the desk slowly. I stand there for a few minutes, watching her read the shelf labels.

The woman touches her hair and sets the tube back on the shelf, slightly askew beside its twins. My left eye twitches.

"Yeah," she sighs. She turns and stares alternatively at my hair and at the shelf. "I'm looking for something... for my hair. I bleach and is dry. I want it shiny." Her light eyes blink slowly at something slightly above my head. She stares at my eyes, the hair on my shoulders, my eyes, the shelf, then the spot above my head again.

"Well, our stuff for hair is over here," I say and gesture to a shelf behind us. She follows me as I walk to the shelf. "I'd recommend the Damage Fix line. All of those products add protein and moisture while protecting from the sun and heat styling. We have a shampoo, conditioner, and products to repair, moisturize, and protect your damaged hair."

I pause to look at the woman. The woman turns to the shelf, grabs an unopened tube of Damage Protect, unscrews the lid, and sniffs deeply.

"Uh... this is the tester," I say and replace the tube in her hand with the tester tube from the shelf.

She breathes in and out slowly.

"What is difference between this, this, and this?" She returns the tube to the shelf and gestures to each product: the enormous litre-sized shampoo and conditioner bottles, the small deep-conditioning tubes, and the skinny daily leave-in conditioner tubes.

"It really depends on what you prefer."

She pauses to open and sniff a new bottle of Damage Protect. "Which one is best? I am washing hair every day."

"Right," I nod. I take the tube of Damage Protect and hand it to her. "This one you can use after you wash."

"Why not this Dry Fix?" she asks, pointing to the blue coloured product line on a shelf beside the Damage line.

"Well, the Damage line is made specifically for damaged hair. Moisture's good, but you definitely want protein back in your hair. Though if you like you can try the Dry Fix line, but if your hair is damaged, the Damage line is what you should try." I roll back on the ball of my foot.

"But which one is best for long hair?" asks the woman.

"Trust me," I say slowly, "this line." I hand her a tube of Damage Protect.

The woman blinks at the shelf tag. "Hmm, $27, huh? Hmm, ok. That's what I'll try." The woman fumbles in her purse and strides to the front. As things jingle in her bag, I stride faster than her to the desk, round the bend, to my computer. I punch my name in. I look up for the tube as she drops it in her purse.

"Um, could I just get that to scan it in?" I ask.

"What?"

"I need to scan it in for inventory reasons and to give you the correct price?"

The woman sighs. She slaps a $20 and a $10 on the counter, rolls her eyes and walks out of the store.

"...Receipt?" I ask the empty shop. I zip to the hair shelf, take a new Damage Protect, scan it, and punch a sale into the computer.

"What just happened? That woman looked upset." speaks a voice to my left.

Lulu walks out from the salon, running an absentminded hand through a thick, shiny, frizz-free length of dark brown hair.

I look at the glass doors through which the woman exited. "I think she didn't understand English too well. But it's okay because I borrowed one from the shelf and scanned it in." I shrug.

"You can't do that! You should have scanned the one the woman had!" snaps Lulu. The crystal beads of her long Swarovski necklace click and glitter against her hair as she shakes her head.

"Well, I asked her and she didn't understand. I'm not going to wrestle a customer away from her purse." I smile at the image, then frown.

"No! You don't understand! Now there will be two products missing, one you scanned and one in her purse! The boss will be really upset."

"But Lulu, she just dropped it in her bag and paid more than enough for it. The barcodes on the products are the same..." I hesitate as Lulu draws in a sharp inward breath.

"Doesn't matter! The numbers matter and the numbers will be different! Product to product, the code is different!"

I take a look at the identical barcodes again. I take a sly glance at the time on my computer. I look back at Lulu and nod slowly. "Okay. You're right. I understand. I'll let Gina know about it and we'll sort it out," I say as calmly as I can muster.

"Thank you," sighs Lulu.

I nod slowly. I keep my shoulders slouched and keep eyes down at my computer keyboard.

David, my fellow receptionist, walks out from the salon. He wipes his wire glasses on his black sweater and pulls ear-length brown hair away from his eyes to put the glasses on his nose.

"Okay," he says.

"Bathroom's all clean. Olive, did you plan on eating today?"

I tug a black sleeve off my wrist and peer at my watch. "Oh wow!" I exclaim. "I better go for lunch before it's three."

Lulu smiles and shuts her eyes as she gives me a quick nod.

I walk to the skin shelf, and straighten the masque tubes into a straight line. I open a drawer beneath them and retrieve my shoulder bag. I walk to the door and spy my reflection in my peripheral vision. I turn to the mirror and frown at a strand of my bangs, sticking straight up. Smoothing it down, I walk out of the shop.

I return from lunch and punch in at my computer. Beside me, Joseph the curly haired Filipino from the Geek Squad taps at David's computer. David rubs a rag under the products on the men's shelf.

"You have a phone in your pocket!" hisses a voice. Gina stands beside me, looking up with haggard, daggered eyes.

"I don't use it on my shift. I only keep it on me for emergencies," I reply, trembling. I look at David and to Joseph, whose faces remain focused on their own tasks.

"For an emergency, we already have a phone!" Gina roars and points her dark eyes at the phone on the desk, between the working computer and the one Joseph has opened up. The rubber of the curly wire starts an inch away from the jack. Red and green wires peek out between the receiver jack and the curls.

"Well, in case I'm away from this one?"

David walks toward the salon with the broom and pan, muttering something about sweeping the floor there.

Gina's face pinches and she shakes her head. Not a hair on her dark Anna Wintour bob flutters out of place. "If you have one on you, everyone else will think it's okay to have one on them. I'm not changing my policy."

I think about Lulu texting her new boyfriend between colourings. I think of Masha calling home to check up on her son's ear infection and fever between haircuts. I think of Ina using the timer on her phone to time massages. I look at the phone on the desk and nod. "Okay," I say softly.

"I have to go to the bank," Gina declares and stomps out of the shop.

I stare out of the shop, over the bench, out of the pharmacy and through the glass doors at the falling clumps of snow.

I imagine building a snowman, throwing snowballs at the passing cars. I imagine building a snow maiden, like the Russian legend. In the legend, a childless couple build a little snow girl. To their utter joy, the snow comes alive and a real little girl appears. They name her "Snegourka". Snegourka laughs, shakes the snow out of her golden curls, and embraces the parents that formed her in the snow. I imagine playing in the snow with her. Snegourka wears a dove-grey dress. She wears dark green stockings tucked into beaded suede boots. Snegourka laughs from a fat belly. Cheeks rosy, she takes my hand and pulls me gently forward. She pats a hip pocket in her dress skirt where a bit of yellow paper sticks out. "Don't forget that you need your soul!" she warns. I feel sad, knowing that with the spring, Snegourka will vanish with the snow. I squeeze her chubby hand. "Come now, Olivia, the winter will not last forever! Let us frolic!" Her blue eyes sparkle in the winter sun. I nod and smirk. I bend down and pick up a clump of snow. I pack it tightly in my hands and aim for a big white truck.

"BRIIIIING!" the phone rings. Snegourka and the snowflakes dissolve into buzzing overhead lights. I push the corners of my mouth up into a smile.

Friday evening

I glance at the time on the computer screen taskbar. 7:00, it reads.

Kelly Strong smiles as she enters the store. Her wide eyes seem to search and drink everything.

"Kelly!" I chirp. "How are you tonight?" I step out from behind the counter and walk up to her.

Kelly stands at about five foot eight. Her deep black pixie hair shines under the store lights.

"Oh, actually." Kelly clasps her hands together, bows slightly above me and her eyes somehow widen farther.

"Could I just grab something to eat? I haven't had my dinner. I won't be five minutes."

"Sure! I'll let Lulu know." I gush. Kelly passes me and walks to my left. She enters the coat closet, and places her large black bag in a cubby hook. I continue to smile as she unzips her bag. She takes out a wallet, zips the purse up, and takes a black wallet out. "See you in ten minutes!" Kelly grins, waves at Lulu in the salon, and strolls past me to the glass store doors.

Once her back disappears, I drop my smile, bite a lip, and dash to my computer. I mouse over Kelly's name. A small square appears above the schedule. Strong, Kelly. 6:45. Appointment: Col/Touch up: Length: 0.30m.

I rub fingers in front of my ears and open my jaw. I heave a sigh.

I tap at the keyboard and select the next day's appointments to print. I check the time of the first appointment: Gina has a client getting full highlights and a haircut at 9 a.m. At least no one will have enough free time to yell at me for having coffee at the front. My stomach growls. I sit on my haunches and switch on the printer.

Fifteen minutes later, Kelly returns to the store, with her perpetual smile and a steaming paper plate of wings and noodles.

"Just going to the bathroom real quick, Lulu!" she calls out as she walks into the salon.

Friday night

I pause outside the subway doors. I tap the messenger icon and Trevor's name. "Wow. Customer tonight took more than 1h longer than she needed to. I'm just leaving now. How goes editing? Kisses."

I shove the subway doors open and march to the turnstiles. I swipe my pass through, thunder down a flight of stairs, and zip onto an eastbound train just as the doors chime and slide shut.

I plunk butt and bag on two seats. I rest my head against a window and watch the hanging white tunnel lights flash by. "Jane" slides past the windows. Darkness. "Runnymede" slides past. "Arriving at Runnymede. Runnymede Station," announces the automated woman's voice over the train speakers.

My head falls forward slightly. "The next station is...

I stare at the deep black platform through the window. A black-haired man in a sheepskin shirt sprints towards my train car. A suede side bag flaps at one hip. The leather jacket flaps open with the motion of his running to reveal the sandalwood grip of a long revolver hanging from the other hip. Behind him follows a pale thin old man in black; a cape spreads out behind him like an extension of the satisfied sneer on his grey lips. The square light flashes above the door and the gunslinger leaps into the car just as the door shuts. He lands on his feet. He turns faded blue eyes to me and bellows: "Mission two: Stay awake!"

I manage a "Thankee, Sai" as the man leaps again towards the other side of the car. He turns to me and speaks soft and low. "Remember, when you kill, kill with your heart." He passes through the closed door on the other side as though he passed through rain. The man in black, still on the platform, slams fists at the closed doors on my right.

I shudder awake and look out windows on either side. I see an empty mint-green platform on one side and dark tracks on the other.

More Friday night

In my room, I lie on my back and watch the red and blue flashing lights on the branches outside my window. I shut my eyes and breathe deeply, but my heart won't stop pounding. Lulu's tirade echoes and bounces around my skull. Flashes of the next product line the boss wants me to study flicker in my vision. I try to remember if I've printed the missing information forms for tomorrow's customers. I try to remember if I—. No, can't care now. I turn on my side and curl up in a ball around my pillow.

Go to sleep, I tell my head. The neighbour who lives in the bedroom above me creaks on the floor.

The steps become heavier and bounce directly above my head. My groan grows into a growl.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" I reach for the foam earplugs under my pillow.

Saturday evening

Trevor and I sit in my bed and watch an episode of Garth Marenghi's Darkplace on my laptop.

The blonde waif Dr. Liz inquires about the chicken special for lunch that day at the hospital. The hospital chef stomps over to Liz, elbows her tray full of food to the ground. "It's women like you that are to blame for today's late lunch!" He spits and stomps back to the kitchen.

"I deserved that," Liz sniffles as she crouches to put the mess back on her tray.

Dr. Dagless tells Liz to cheer up and bring the chicken to his office whenever it's ready. Dagless's boss, the cigar-chewing Reed, keeps Liz in the office while Dagless and his friend Dr. Sanchez search for clues to the episode's mystery. Reed complains about being stuck with a moody woman and a light bulb explodes. Reed naturally asks Liz to replace it.

The camera zooms to Liz's pinched lips, then to her wide, blue-lined eye. For the rest of the episode, the Darkplace hospital staff fend off her army of flying papers, cutlery, and garbage bins with kung fu, shotguns, and slow-motion running.

Before the credits, Liz thanks Dr. Sanchez for a lobotomy. She bends over to retrieve a basket full of freshly baked buns. A guitar squeals, and the triumphant rock theme repeats on electronic keyboards. Voices chant "Darkplace, darkplace" and the camera zooms away from a prop hospital.

"Another?" I ask Trevor, clicking open my downloads folder.

"Sure," he replies. I gaze at his face, shaded by a favourite yellow hoodie.

"You want in?" I ask, lifting the sleeping bag I've wrapped around myself.

"I'm fine." He tugs slightly at the hood at his forehead.

I start the next episode and draw the blanket tighter about myself. A wave of exhaustion crests from my back to my shoulders up to my eyes and I lay my head on my knees.

"I'm suddenly so tired. I think those antihistamines are kicking in," I mumble from my knees.

"If you need to lie down, hon, lie down," Trevor murmurs.

"I wish I weren't so tired," I sigh.

"You need your sleep. Go to sleep. It's okay." His voice soothes me.

I lie down in a tight fetal curl beside him. He presses a hand into my lower back. He rubs up to my shoulders, up and down. Warm dark waves of sleep flow above and through me. Deeper and deeper I fall —

I hear the Darkplace theme again and Trevor's voice above me. "Hon, I'm heading out."

I groan and reach towards him in the fading light.

He leans in and kisses me soundly. I press up into his soft lips. I reach for his face and run my fingers though his hair. Since he quit smoking, he tastes less like Canadian Classics and more like the beeswax in his lip balm. I trace the shell of his ear with a finger. "I've turned the heat up a little. Sleep tight," he murmurs. He adjusts a second blanket over me and kisses my forehead. My eyes fall shut. I hear him say hello to my housemate Heather. "Nice to see you, as always," I hear Heather's voice say. Dark grey sleep waves rush and roar through my body again.

Saturday night

I hear creaks above me. I groan and stare at the ceiling. The creaks grow louder and closer. I take the flashlight hanging at my headboard and aim the light above me. A dusty white square of the stucco ceiling falls and clatters on my knee. A man's shadowed face appears in the orange circle of light, framed by the new square hole.

The upstairs neighbour peeks down at me. Dust floats about his gelled blond hair. He pulls his face to the right of the hole. A woman's face, smiling, unblinking appears in the left half of the hole.

"I haven't had my dinner," she begins. "I won't be more than five minutes." Her amber eyes pierce mine. She licks her lips.

This can't be happening, I think. I'm dreaming. I stand on the bed. I lift one foot in the air, then the other. I stand. I hover a foot above my bed. If I can do that, I'm awake in a dream.

I shriek a war cry. In one swift motion, I pull twin iron daggers out of my knee-high socks. I send the blades through the square hole. I pull the blades back and push them through again. I roar, "I! NEED! TO! SLEEP!" I punctuate each word with both blades stabbing.

I pick the fallen stucco and replace it. Tie-dye peach and coral lines circle the white square. The square falls on my head. It pushes down heavily. I fall through several feet of crisp cool air.

I gasp and touch the bed with my arms. I fumble for my phone. I double-take at the time glowing in the blackness: 10:13 p.m.

I text Trevor: "I wish I were up to enjoy time with you but thanks for making me rest. Xx"

I stumble into the kitchen and fill the kettle. I press the switch to "ON". I smile groggily at the back of a bun of red hair. Heather turns and nods at me. She stirs a steaming wok filled with pasta shells, pumpkin shavings, potatoes, and chicken.

"Smells amazing," I tell her.

"Good nap?" she asks.

I nod. "So good, I think I'll have another. But first, something to drink. I just can't stop... I'm so thirsty these days."

"The solution to pollution is dilution," declares Heather. She adjusts a knob above the stove.

The kettle switches off. I shake in a packet of green tea and stir the mug's contents.

My pocket buzzes. I whip the phone out and thumb in the password.

"You snore like an angel. Xox"

I smile, test a sip, and take my tea to the crisp grey coolness of my room.

**Eman**

Carine Abouseif

January 2003

I swing my feet off the blue-and-white-cushioned lawn chair. My mom only puts out the blue and white cushions when we have fancy guests over. The smell of smoky, charred beef swirls around the garden. My dad stands at the end of the garden nudging strips of beef, honey-marinated drumsticks, and halloumi cheese on the shiny, new grill. Next to him, his coworker Eman rests a hand on her hip and wields a glass of red wine between her pinky and ring fingers. She pulls the glass towards her, takes a sip, and flips a halo of charcoal curls out of her inky-eye-shadow-caked eyes.

On the other side of the garden, my sister Nadine and Eman's daughter swing matching, multi-coloured hula hoops around their hips. I've never been able to hula-hoop.

Eman's husband sits opposite me in another blue-and-white-cushioned lawn chair with his back to the grill. His thick eyebrows meet midway across his forehead. His furry knuckles extend to a full glass of wine on the glass garden table. He taps the surface to the rhythm of Andrea Bocelli's "Con te partirò" drifting through the open front door of the house.

"So, what grade are you in?" he asks.

"Grade six," I mumble.

Behind him, Eman places her empty wine glass on the top ledge of the grill and laughs.

"Oh, grade six. Are you enjoying it?"

"Mhm."

I swing off my chair, dash around the house, and press down on the handle to back door that leads into the kitchen. My mom rolls oblong balls of beef mixed with mint and parsley. She plops them onto a plastic tray.

"Why aren't you playing with the girls?" she asks without looking up from her bowl of pink beef.

"They're hula-hooping," I say. I lean against the closed wooden door.

"Why don't you get out your skipping rope and play with them?" she asks. She adds another ball to the dozen placed on the tray.

"Okay." I dash through the kitchen, around the corner, and straight to the storage room where I last left my taped-up red and green skipping rope on top of the ironing board. My shoes screech on the large white tiles. I press down on the door handle and step into the storage room. My eyes dart to the top of the ironing board. No skipping rope. I step over the abandoned packaging of the new grill and around stacked containers of old Barbie clothes beside the dusty door to the house's electric switches. The door hangs open from the last time the living chandelier went out. All six switches point upwards. I scan the surfaces of the room. No skipping rope.

I pick my way over the empty grill box again. "Con te partirò" ends and Eman's sharp laugh breaks the silence between tracks. "Per amor" starts on the speakers. I pivot in place, knocking over the topmost container of Barbie clothes. The lid pops off and a miniature salmon-coloured sandal skids across the dusty tiles. I stand square in front of the switch box. I smooth soot off the first switch with my thumb. I place my index finger over the upward-pointing switch. I press down. The storage room blacks out, and so do the rest of the house and the garden lamps. Bocelli's voice dies.

June 2006

I lie level on the icy, cappuccino-coloured tiles in the foyer of my Dubai house. The rim of the red-and-grey-striped futon juts over one side of my face. The black underbelly of the couch crusts with clumps of dirt and a thick coat of dust. The musty sting slows my quick pant. Kinga's voice bounces in my skull. "Again!" Attempting an Axel jump on marble tiles does not seem like such a good idea now. The Axel jump, as Kinga, my Romanian figure-skating coach, reminds me every lesson, is a one-and-a-half-rotation jump in the air starting from a forward outside edge.

I press my palms to the cool ground and swing to sit-up position. The hazy aqua numbers on the face of the microwave read 4:51. I pull my legs in and push the grimy soles of my grey Chucks together. 4:52. My dad should have been here at 4:45. I wonder if I'll have enough time to warm up. When my mom drives me to the ice rink I always have enough time to warm up. I won't have enough time to warm up today because Mom flew to Cairo last week to visit Teta, who was sick. I wonder how Teta's doing and why we haven't heard anything from Mom since she left. 4:53. I scan the sandy driveway through the square glass panes in the front door. 4:54.

At 4:59 the gold sand whips trails into the surrounding air as the black Dodge Durango climbs into the driveway. I bolt from the ground, heave up my brick-coloured bag, snatch my keys and my cellphone off the couch, and slam the front door. I skip down the front steps, swing around the blue and white garden gate, step into the soft sand, and secure my hand around the handle of the passenger seat door. I stop.

The silhouette of a frizzy-haired woman, with a nose shaped like an isosceles triangle.

I step back and slip into the seat behind the woman. Her inky hair makes a halo around the beige headrest and her bare arms glisten in the five o'clock sun.

"You remember my friend Eman, right?" my father yells over the sound of Elissa's voice, which swells from the speakers.

"Mmhmm," I nod. I wonder why my father isn't listening to his usual rant of daily disasters from the BBC World Service.

My father pushes the gear forward, reverses, and moves the gear again. The car rocks over the uneven sand, then glides onto the road, around a roundabout, and finally onto the highway. I cross one leg over the other and X my hands over my chest in a mock axel position. I imagine spinning through frosty air and landing gracefully on one foot.

The song changes and I recognize the playlist from the CD of Arabic songs I made for my mom. Elissa asks her lover where he's been and why he hasn't called. Eman hums to the tune and my father's arm rests on the gear.

At 5:25, the car rolls into Al Nasr Leisure Land's parking lot and around the U-shaped drop-off area.

"Enjoy," my dad says.

I slide out of the back seat and drag my bag with me. It drops to the gravel and I slam the door shut. The car revs away. I tow the bag on the asphalt behind me, then haul it onto my shoulders as I run up the grubby entranceway steps. I wave my pink laminated card at the thick-moustached man that sits in the booth by the double doors, and push the metallic handle bars. I stride through the entrance hall, past the mini-fountain, and through the green doors to the ice rink. My Chucks squeak and squelch on the ribbed rubbery floor.

Monica stands by a bench with a limp ponytail and soaked socks. She wipes the blades of her skates with a small worn-out red towel. Patches of eroded whiteness circle her knees and her elbows. She pushes her glasses up her tiny nose as I squeak toward her.

"Hey, how's that double Salchow coming?" I ask. I let my bag plummet onto the bench. The blades of my boots clang inside.

"It's not coming at all." She shakes her head and her ponytail sways. She squeezes a pair of red woolen gloves and a trickle of water dribbles to the already wet rubber floor. "How's the Axel?"

I peek down at my own pale patches on the knees of my once-black track pants. "Same thing."

Monica slips her sock-like blade covers over the edges of her battered boots, arranges them in her bag, waves goodbye, and trudges out the green doors.

I tie each boot twice, then snap on my maroon velvet boot covers. I walk to the rink gate—my blades sink into the indents of the floor—and glide one foot, then the other onto the ice.

A white haze rises from the freshly cleaned ice. Frosty air tingles my face and neck. The cold air smells clean. My blades rip through the shiny ice. Forward, forward, inside edge, backward inside edge, crossover, crossover, crossover, crossover, forward, forward...

I land two loops, one half-loop, a Salchow, and a flip. I practice double loops and higher flips.

At the far end of the rink, Kinga slips over the banister of rink and glides towards me. At five feet two inches and ninety-seven pounds, Kinga almost disappears in the white icy haze. I unzip my sweater, lean over the banister, and fling it onto the bench. Kinga holds her index finger up, twirls it around, and mouths "Axel."

I switch to fast backward crossovers. The wind from the quick motion whips my bare shoulders and arms. I think of Eman and her bare shoulders. I wonder how lenient professional dress codes are at Dubai Internet City, where they work. I strain my memory for a blazer or cardigan in the car. I cross my feet faster and faster. My skates rip, rip, rip through the ice. I twist around, step, swivel, swing my arms and legs into the jump, and smash to the ice, right knee first, then left. I lie face down on the ice, then roll over. Water seeps through the back of my shirt.

Kinga's lined face, high ponytail, and blue jacketed torso lean above me. "Again."

August 2010

Yellow. Yellow. Soft. Bruised. Too big. Too small. Yellow...

I toss barely red tomatoes to the back of the green plastic basket. The yellow and white label on the basket reads: "Tomatoes: Local AED 0.45 per kg." The scent of dusty vegetables and overripe fruit rises from the baskets around me. The constant beeps of the weighing counter fade into the drone of the fridges and the low buzz of chatter.

"We need bananas, right?" Nadine says. She bends over the second shelf of the pale wooden rack that carries pineapples, packs of cut-up green coconut, and batches of green, yellow, and black bananas.

"Yeah, we do," I say. I scout the tomato basket for a perfect, red, sturdy tomato. The box to the right of the local tomatoes, the box marked "Tomatoes: Holland AED 0.97 per kg", brims with juicy, ruby-red tomatoes. I wonder if the lady at the weighing counter would notice a perfect Holland tomato in between unripe and overripe United Arab Emirates ones in my bag.

"None of these are yellow," Nadine swings a bunch of brown bananas away. The squat woman at the weighing counter lets her eyes dance with the swaying bananas, then back to Nadine's face. She squeezes her lips together and beeps more buttons on her machine.

"Just get green ones," I say.

Nadine rustles a few green bananas into a bag and sinks the bag onto the metal scale on the counter. The squat woman pushes three buttons, knots the bag, and slides a sticker onto it.

"Oh my God."

"We need onions too. White ones," I read from a crumpled list.

"No Carine, come look. It's the lady, it's Eman..."

I look up from the half-rotten tomatoes. Nadine gnaws on the cuticles of her index finger.

At the third checkout counter stand a woman and a young boy with a mushroom haircut. The woman reaches inside a green trolley, to the belt, and back. The belt piles with a baguette, Activia yoghurt packs, a milk jug, a ball of lettuce, and low-fat Kraft singles.

I duck behind the soda aisle. Nadine follows.

"Are you sure it's her?"

"Yeah, look at her face. It's exactly like the picture we saw on Pappy's phone. And I see her at school, remember?"

The tiny boy with the jet-black mushroom haircut heaves the empty trolley to the other end of the third checkout counter, where a man in a green jumpsuit bags the groceries in thick emerald plastic bags. Eman rests a hand on her hip and watches the belt jolt forward. Her dark, smooth skin seems sickly pale. Her sharp nose seems to slice the air in front her as she digs through her purse for her Guess wallet. Her long, frizzy, charcoal-coloured hair clouds around her head in thick strands. Her eyes sink behind folds, creases, and dark grey eye shadow. A pair of heavy Indian gold earrings lengthen her earlobes. Chains and pendants cascade over her black tank top. A nude bra strap peeks out from under the black spaghetti straps. Her khaki skirt fits closely around her body. My mother doesn't wear tank tops and skirts anymore.

Eman flips a tentacle-like strand of hair over her crown.

"We should go," I whisper. "If she sees us it'll be weird."

Nadine nods and turns to the counter for her bananas. The woman at the counter's eyes shuttle between me, Nadine, and the checkout counter. I grab a Holland tomato, dunk it in my original bag of UAE tomatoes and dump them in the rusty trolley.

The next morning I shuffle out of bed and peer into my bathroom mirror through sinking lids. My usually straight hair puffs into frizzy loops. A few strands curl over my shoulders.

I splash my face, brush my teeth, retie the drawstrings of my faded grey pajama pants, and amble down the stairs into the kitchen. The tiny light of the electric kettle glows red and steam fogs from its nozzle. I measure one teaspoon of Nescafé and half a teaspoon of sugar into a plain black mug.

My dad walks into the kitchen. He squints at me. His black and grey hair fluffs to one side. "Buongiorno!" he says.

"Hi," I say. I push the corners of my mouth up as far as they can go. He presses a few buttons on his BlackBerry, squeezes a gold and white Marlboro Lights pack from the pocket of last night's pants, and peers back up at me.

"Your hair looks nice." He pushes a cigarette between his teeth and steps toward the back door. "You should do it like that more." He points at my hair with one hand and uses the other to pull down the black and gold handle of the door. The door squeaks shut behind him.

I dart to the first-floor bathroom mirror. Tentacles of hair twist and twirl around my head. I spin the tap, cup some water in my hands, and soak my hair. I pull the strands down as straight as they go.

September 2012

"Can I see some ID, please?" the waitress asks.

"Sure." I slide my driver's licence out of my softened stringy black wallet. I slide it across the polished wood of the table for two. The group of twenty-somethings at the next table pass a pack of Belmonts around the table. I snap my menu shut and place it on the table. The waitress drops my card and picks up my menu.

"I'll be back with a Caesar for you," she nods at me, "and a glass of red for you," she nods at my dad across the table. Her black platform stilettos scrape the brick floor of the terrace and click-clack as she enters the indoor portion of the bar.

A blonde at the next table giggles and taps her cigarette in the glass ashtray.

"I don't understand how you've never been to this place before," my dad says, sliding out a cigarette of his own. "It's so hip," he says, and sticks the cigarette between his lips. He flips the flint wheel on his metal lighter with his name, Ayman, engraved in loopy letters in the corner.

"So, what are you doing in Toronto?" I ask.

The blonde crosses and uncrosses her long tanned glistening legs.

"Nothing, really," Ayman says. "I just had some vacation time so I'm passing through. I'm going to Cyprus next, and then Barcelona."

"That's nice."

The twenty-somethings pass an iPhone around the table. They snigger at whatever's on the screen. The blonde stubs her cigarette in the ashtray.

The waitress click-clacks toward us. She slides two small square white napkins on the table. She positions a tall, tomato-red drink on my napkin. Fat water droplets trickle onto the napkin and dot the tissue paper. A toothpick with three green olives and pickled cucumber balances across the top of a glass. _Bloody Caesar. $7.99._ The waitress sets a curvy glass of wine on Ayman's napkin. _9oz Humberto Canale Pinot Noir. $14.50._

"There you go," she says. She tucks the tray behind her back. "Can I get you anything else?"

"We're good, thank you." Ayman smiles.

The waitress nods, smiles, and click-clacks inside.

November 2012

I twist the cap off a diet Coke, sip the foam off the top, and set the bottle on my cluttered Ikea desk. I nudge chicken-flavoured Mr. Noodle in their paper container. I twirl a noodle strand around my fork and slurp at the end of the string. Chicken-flavoured water droplets spray my cheek and neck. I set the paper bowl onto my desk, amble into the kitchen, tear a square off the paper napkin roll, and dab my face. My BlackBerry buzzes on the desk. I shuffle to it.

The screen flashes "Nadine". I stick the phone between my ear and my shoulder and plop down on my desk chair. I reach for the bottle of Coke.

"Hey," I say between sips.

"Hey," Nadine says, "Umm, I have to tell you something."

"Sure." I drag my laptop across the desk towards me. An empty venti Starbucks cup topples over into a pile of Wal-Mart and No Frills receipts.

"But you can't tell Mommy," Nadine says.

I tap my keyboard. The computer sighs and whirrs as it comes to life.

"Sure." _Watch Girls Season 1_ , I type into Google. I hit enter. Google presents me with a list of links. I click the first link. I can't remember which episode I watched last.

"He got remarried."

I set the bottle of Coke on the desk.

"They went to Cyprus so there wouldn't be any legal issues," she says. "And then they went on their honeymoon in Barcelona."

I push my chair away from the desk, crushing an old copy of the _Star_ sticking out from under my bed.

"You have to promise you won't tell Mommy, okay?" Nadine says.

I swivel my chair to face away from the desk. A heap of clothes covers faded white-and-red-polka-dot sheets on my bed. A stray receipt sits stuffed inside a discoloured sock. I raise one leg onto the bed, and cross the other over it. I grasp the phone with one hand and chin in the other.

"Of course."

**Yellow Butterflies**

Elizabeth Carroll

February 5th, 2013: 6:10 p.m.

My key rattles in the front door of my condominium townhouse. I turn it to the right and push the door open. I twist my right shoulder and shove the shoulder strap of my briefcase and lunchbox to a comfortable position before collapsing through the doorway.

"Hello?!" I holler.

Silence.

I jiggle the lock and pull my keys from the lock and place them carefully onto the cast-iron kittycat-tail key hook behind the door. I close the door and proceed to take off Mom's fancy black winter boots from my feet. I place them in the closet and grab a hanger. I take off my white wool work jacket and shove it into the closet. Two hangers drop. Crash.

Silence.

"Mika? Hello? Where is my sweet puppy?"

Silence.

I peer around the corner of my foyer toward my twelve-year-old Chihuahua's big cage. The door sits open and he blinks at me.

"Hi, pup."

He looks the same way I feel today. Lazy, tired, a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, not because you ate something bad, but just because you are not happy with your life at this moment. You feel empty inside and just want to wake up from this bad dream, but you are not dreaming. This is just life.

I walk into the kitchen and wish I had a beer or wine or something to cover up my feelings but insist on Perrier Lime since it is Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays. I hate today. I pour the Perrier into a wine glass so it feels like I am drinking but once I place it to my lips, I feel hydrated instead of feeling more depressed.

I grab my cigarette pack from the junk drawer and snatch a smoke. I sit at the kitchen table in silence and smoke while sipping my Perrier.

I review the mail and find a new debit card and thick letter from the MS Society of Canada, most likely regarding donations. I open the MS Society letter with my finger, breaking the top of the letter into a jagged tear. I pull out a letter with a nickel attached to it and colourful return address stickers with flowers, ladybugs, and butterflies. My heart skips a beat and I put my cigarette out.

Butterflies.

Yellow butterflies.

Dancing around my head on the worst day of my life.

Silence.

Those butterflies.

August 2nd, 2011: 9:30 a.m.

"She only has a couple minutes left, dear," the nurse says, and she walks out of the room.

"What?" I shout. I dart from my slight slumber on the pull-out plastic hospital chair. I have been sleeping on that fucking chair every night since Mom came to the palliative care unit.

"Mom!" I shout as I stand over her unconscious body, and I watch her take a slow deep breath.

Mom was diagnosed with acute lymphocyte leukemia on June 6th and refused chemo. She had a 73% chance of beating this disease, but due to her other health problems, she didn't want to follow through with treatment. I was furious when she told me, but I respected her decision since my opinion, tears, and rages didn't change her mind.

Ring. Ring.

Beep. Beep.

Ring. Ring.

I rip the phone from the receiver that sits on the bed. "Hello? Any minute now. Any minute now. I have to go!" I shout. The faded sounds of the voice on the other line slow down, "What, Beth? What?" I drill the phone back down into the cradle.

I lay over Mom's body and stare at her face and hold her hand tight in my grip.

She hasn't spoke for about a day and a half. Her eyes have been closed and she has been sleeping, moaning, and groaning. I have been undergoing the worst denial that I don't even know what is going on. I can barely fathom what the nurse just told me.

The short, pudgy nurse pops back into the room, leans over Mom with stethoscope in hand, and feels her pulse.

"I will let you spend some time with her, but it is very close. Her heart rate is slowing."

I watch Mom's upper lip. Her beauty mark stands strong. I watch the mark that I have always looked at. Through the trials and tribulations, through the laughs, through the smirks and through the rain, sunshine, and all the days of my life up to this point.

I never wanted to lose my mom. I never wanted this to happen. I only wanted her to get better and for it to be easier for us.

I watch Mom breathe slower, slower, and stop. The clock hits 9:35 a.m. A tingle overcomes my blood and the air grows still. An image of Mom in her blue muumuu dress, in the arms of my father, dancing in circles, stamps through my mind.

"Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM!" I shout. Mom stops breathing. The sun beams on my back. I look up at the shitty ceiling and that stupid chair and this fucking hospital room and shout, "What the fuck?!"

I look down at Mom's still hand in my grip and slowly slide Grandma's wedding ring off of her ring finger. I place the skinny silver band onto my index finger. I lie over Mom's body and cry, and cry, and cry.

The next hour is full of phone calls. My two aunts come into the room, crying. A pastor comes in and discusses bereavement classes. My mom's body lies in the hospital bed. I just want to leave. I feel like Mom left too.

11:45 a.m.

Paige and I walk across the Beer Store parking lot. My eyes swell from crying. I hold on to my sixty-ounce of vodka and Paige carries a twenty-four of Canadian.

The sun toasts my face as we shuffle to the car.

The drive home feels like five hours. My house is about half a kilometre from the Beer Store. Paige has been my best friend since I was fourteen and I usually never shut up, but today my heart weighs one million tonnes and my body cannot handle the weight. Each step feels like a crack in my spine and a kick in my lungs. I just want to go home. I want to wait for Mom to come home.

I arrive at my back door, it opens, and my aunt pulls me into a tight, sobbing hug. I stand motionless, hug back, move away from the door, and finally squeeze in through the doorway. I drag my feet to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with half vodka, half water, and walk back down the hall to the backyard.

I sit on a lawn chair, put a smoke to my lips, and light it.

Paige follows with the same actions.

"I just feel like she should be coming home," I say to Paige.

"I know, Bethie. I feel like she should be here with us having a drink. You know, she is here now with us," Paige replies as she has a drag of her cigarette.

"She will come home, Paigey. She will show me. I told her to give me a sign a couple of days ago. I told her always to be near me."

Paige puts her hand over mine and grins. "She will always be with you, babe."

I look over at the brick wall and take a big gulp of my strong drink. I take a deep, long pull of my smoke. I feel something tap my head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I say under my breath as six tiny pale yellow butterflies each tap against my forehead. They fly above my head, swoop back down, and fly into the distance.

I smile.

"There she is," I say.

**Acknowledgements**

Somehow, I managed to scream at enough people, and that ended up producing a wonderful little ebook. I think those people deserve to be thanked.

A book is only as good as its editors. Jodelle DeJesus, Katherine Lucynski, and Luke Sawczak each contributed their editing expertise to this collection. Since they're all various types of professional editor, the book ended up a lot more polished than if I'd have gone over it with a red pen and a shaky idea of how to use a semicolon. Ultimately, they did work so I didn't have to, and that's my version of heaven.

Our writers wrote well, wrote fast, and wrote for free. Because of that last bit, we were able to make this ebook free as well. I think they're all fabulous people, and I look forward to exploiting them in the future.

Our readers—I can only assume—are astute, well-read individuals with a thing for stories and tasteful cover designs. I'd like to thank them for their attention, and for being amazing.

Finally, I'd like to thank our future contributors. _Record Two: Night and Day_ will be coming out some time around the end of May, and I can't express how exciting that is.
