World of Glass by Jocelyne Dubois

one summer and got free tickets. Justin worked for the Harbour Lights Reading Series. We met Susan Sontag, Ted Hughes, Carol Shields. I’d blush, my cheeks red as apples, when I shook their hands. “Don’t be so insecure!” Justin would say. We had a room in our apartment filled wall to wall with books and two desks. Justin tried to write a mystery novel. I wrote drafts of stories. I think back. When we first met, I lied about my age. He was younger than me by three years. Men most always prefer to be older than the woman. I remember pleasant evenings together when we’d discuss books that we were reading and sometimes disagreed on our feelings about them. I read mostly women writers: Anaïs Nin, Simone de Beauvoir. “Don’t you think women write differently than men?” I’d say. “They’re intuitive, their choice of words, gentler. For the most part, I usually can tell after the first paragraph from a book, whether the author is male or female.” My stomach begins to feel wheezy as I see vivid images in my head of him flirting with pretty girls. He was blond, handsome, charming and they flirted back. He’d bring laughter to their faces with clever jokes. One time, I deliberately stepped on his toes with my clunky shoes. Another time, I slapped his cheek. He screeched, his face reddened but he held back from hitting me back. Then one day, he went to Vancouver for two weeks, met a beautiful young brunette and fell in love, or so he said.
    â€œYou never have any money,” he’d complain. Our apartment on King Street West was on the second floor. I left behind my dresser, an antique couch, two lamps and bookshelves. I couldn’t afford a truck to bring my belongings with me. Ihad planned to make a fresh start. I would buy a new sofa with throw pillows, original paintings from small galleries and a new computer. Yes, definitely a computer.
    I wonder now, how is Justin getting along with his new girlfriend? Does she smoke? He found my cigarette habit intolerable, so I switched to smoking Old Port cigars for a while, thinking that the smell would be sweeter.
    I think about the letters she sent him from Vancouver. There must have been over twenty of them. Some came with photographs of her sitting on rocks by the ocean. She was moving to Toronto to be with Justin. Get an apartment, move and find a job. I stay motionless on the lawn with my towel under me. My hair is damp and sweat drips down my neck.
    The room is crowded. I have been waiting forty minutes to see Dr. Ali. There is a woman with a young boy, no more than ten, facing me. The boy tells his mother to “va chier,” the mother smacks him on the head. The boy howls and kicks his feet. Dr. Ali walks in. “Chloé.” I nod and follow him into his office. There are no pictures on his walls. White blinds on the window. They are shut.
    â€œHow go medication?”
    â€œ5 milligrams is better.”
    â€œYou burn face.” I nod.
    â€œNo sun with medication. I keep it at 5 milligrams and 900 milligrams of Lithium.” He scribbles on a prescription form, hands it to me and says,
    â€œNo sun.”
    Seasons pass. It goes on like this for four years.

CHAPTER IV
    I SIT BY THE front window at a small table at Toi, Moi et Café. I wear my black jeans and flowered print blouse. I hear a young woman. She is dressed in black silk pants. Her lips are painted scarlet. She whispers quickly on her cell phone. A white cup with foamed milk and chocolate sprinkled on top sits on her table.
    â€œJ’ai un cours au H.E.C. ce soir,” I hear her say. I look up. The café is long, narrow and half-empty. I see a wooden patio through windows. A disheveled middle-aged man wearing corduroy pants, hair long and tangled, reading Le Devoir . I take An Angel at My Table by Janet Frame out of my bag. A book that Justin sent me a month ago. On the title page he wrote: “Chloé, while she was in