World of Glass by Jocelyne Dubois Page A

the hospital, the doctors were going to give her a lobotomy. She won a small literary prize, so they decided not to give her the operation. That was in the 1940s. Thank God you’re living in 2004.”
    I take out a Rothmans from my pack. I can’t find my lighter. I look up and see a man with wire-rimmed glasses and behind them, very large brown eyes. An owl, I think. He is typing on his laptop. I walk up to him and say, “I’m sorry to disturb you.” The man glances up at me.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you have a light?”
    â€œSorry. I don’t smoke, but you can find matches at the counter.”
    â€œOf course.” I get up and stroll to the cash register. There is a yellow bowl brimming with matchbooks. The café’s logo on them. I take one, then stop behind the man with the laptop. I see that his shoulders are hunched forward, his shirt collar is folded inward, the tail of his shirt hangs over his black jeans. I look up at his head. He is balding.
    â€œAre you a writer?” I say.
    â€œYes, I write poetry.” He stops typing. There is a book called Crow by Ted Hughes and Roget’s Thesaurus on the table.
    â€œDo you mind if I ask you to read to me what you’re writing?”
    â€œSure, have a seat.” I sit facing him. I notice his double chin.
    â€œIt’s pretty dark stuff,” he says.
    â€œIf it gets published, the world will know about you.”
    â€œDon Marquis said, ‘publishing a book of poems is like dropping a rose petal into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.’ It’s not quite finished yet, but here goes.”
    SHAFT
    I am dead
    he said.
    Such a solemn air, he thought –
    So weighted with despair –
    His body hurtled down a shaft
    At the movements of his lips.
    And so he whispered
    Once again
    â€œI am dead.”      And laughed.
    Silence. The espresso machine hums, Oscar Peterson’s piano flourishes the background.
    â€œI know how you feel,” I say and stretch my hand over his and squeeze, then quickly release it. “I’m Chloé.”
    â€œI’m Mark.” The waiter comes by. I order a cappuccino and he refills Mark’s cup. “Merci,” Mark says with an English accent.
    â€œI’m only in the city for a few hours. Needed to get out of the suburbs,” I say. “Do you live around here?”
    â€œYes. On Hutchison. I just came from a swim at the Y.” He points at his gym bag.
    â€œHow many lengths did you do?”
    â€œAbout fifty.” I find this remarkable. I cannot imagine swimming so many laps.
    â€œWhere do you live exactly?” he asks.
    â€œTerrebonne. That’s an hour away, but I prefer the city.”
    â€œThen why are you living there?”
    â€œWell,” I say. I pause. My shoulders slowly hunch over, my head tilts toward the table. I wonder whether he is trustworthy. I stay mute.
    â€œIs everything all right?” I cough as if something is stuck in my throat.
    â€œWell.” Pause. “I suffered a breakdown. I live with my mother.”
    â€œOh,” Mark says and stares out the window. “…hard. Traumatic, one might say.”
    â€œYes. Very, very traumatic.” Silence. “I started to swim at a pool in Terrebonne. I go twice a week.”
    â€œThe Y has a steam bath and the water is always warm.”
    â€œDoes it cost anything?”
    â€œIt’s free for Montréal residents. If you’d like to come with me, you can use my address.”
    â€œHere’s my phone number,” I write my first name and number on a white paper napkin and hand it to him. Mark gives me his.
    For a moment, I wonder whether he is looking for sex but he does not gaze at my small breasts or bare neck.
    â€œI have something to confess to you,” he says. “I have no arch in my left foot. I wear orthopedic shoes. I can’t walk very far, but I will accompany you to the