I made a mental note to call Nolan back later. For now, I had more pressing problems; my phone not only contained my list of contacts, personal text messages, but it was synced up with my e-mail, where identity fraud is completely possible.

In less than a minute, I went from being happy and excited to being in a state of panic. A horrid feeling grasped at my heart, this reminded me of a similar situation that happened not too long ago. Natalie, get a grip on yourself. That snapped me back into reality, those words that I repeated to myself during difficult and stressful times. My mind kicked back into overdrive.

There was no time to waste. My phone is lost, presumably stolen. Therefore, the most logical approach is trying to call back the number as soon as possible. I rushed back up the stairs and into the reserved landscape. Something about it bothered me; how everyone could be calmly going about his or her business while I’m having a major crisis. Halfway down the block, I located a payphone and briskly made my way there.

Clink clink, went the sound of quarters being devoured by a soulless machine. Sequentially, I punched in my own number and anxiously awaited to hear an answer on the other side. Out of tededency, I started tapping my left hand repeatedly on the glass box surrounding the payphone. It was the fifth ring, still no answer. I was about to give up when the dark voice of a man answered.

“Hello, who’s there?” he asked simply.

I was a bit surprised that there was actually someone who had my phone. “I should be asking you that question. You appear to have possession of my cell phone.”

“Oh, do I now?” he replied, trying to play dumb.

“Yes, this is my number. I had lost my phone not even two minutes ago,” my voice wavered, edging on the brink of snapping. “Evidently, you have my phone right now and I would like it back.”

“And why would I do that? The phone was clearly lying on the ground and the owner was nowhere to be spotted. I just took the phone for my own,” he explained nonchalantly, which only made me more irritated.

“Look, I was right there lying on the floor beside it. Some miscreant knocked me down and probably jarred the phone from my hands. I just want− “

“Calling me a ‘miscreant,’ huh? What a derogatory term that should only be used for women, or should I say scum, like you.”

Well, he admitted to elbowing me and talking about stealing my phone like it was no big deal. But calling me a “scum”? That was ridiculous.

I snapped, “How am I the scum? The only scum here is the one who stole my phone and refuses to hand it back to its rightful owner. I swear, you better give back the phone, or else…”

“Or else?” he countered with a smirk, as if amused by my threats.

I was going to say “or else I’ll report you to the police”, but something caught the tip of my tongue and stopped me from saying it.

“It seems you have no words to say. Frankly, I’m the one who calls the shots here, I’m the person with the phone and what do you have? Nothing. Like the person with the gun, that’s who holds the power. I’m the man… and you’re just some worthless scum,” he spat, saying the word “scum” with bitter distaste.

Curse words fizzed in my mouth, ready to explode. But something clicked in my mind. I knew that if I retaliated, he could easily make off with my phone and I would never see it again. It took immense control, but I allowed myself to sacrifice dignity for strategic gain.

“Okay. I may be some sort of scum. But what are you going to do with the phone anyway? What are you looking to gain from it? It’s already protected with a complex passcode that would take you years to crack.”

“…”silence. It had appeared I had some sort of footing in this argument now, but then a horrible deranged laughter sounded through the phone.

“Ha! You think that’ll stop me? I am one of the nation’s greatest hackers. A mundane passcode like this is child’s play for me. The second I access your phone, consider your personal information leaked and your social identity ruined. Of course, I’d be willing to give back your phone without any permanent repercussions for a small fee…”

“How much?” I snarled.

“$10, 000,” he responded coldly.

That’s a small fee? Are you kidding me? How was I going to get that amount of money? As I was slamming the phone back onto the till, I heard the muffled voice of the man saying: “Call back if you’re interested, or else… Hahah−”

Without another word, I stormed off aimlessly. Honestly, that man was a misogynist, a male chauvinist, a no-good asswipe. Definitely that last one though, because a man like him wouldn’t care about fancy terminology and the higher education that I received. He was merely somebody who only cares about money, not about the true value of a woman. He was just like…

No, I wouldn’t remind myself of him. Using the self-control techniques I’ve taught myself: taking deep breaths and thinking of a happier place, I eventually calmed myself down and started to head home.

I grabbed my keys from my pockets and unlocked the door to my suburban home. Unexpectedly, I was met by the clamorous sound of a crying baby. Anna! How could I forget about her? After slipping off my jacket, I hustled towards the origin of the crying.

Hastily, I opened the door to my bedroom and found Anna lying in her makeshift toddler bed, far away from the window and bawling her eyes out. Motherly instinct took over and I instantly walked over, picked up Anna and started cradling her.

“Anna, moy dorogoy… It’s okay. Mommy is home now. Sorry, I took so long,” I apologized, all the while rocking my baby forwards and backwards in my embrace.


(*moy dorogoy translates to “my darling”)


Yet the crying didn’t seem to stop, in fact it was getting increasingly louder. Each wail made my heart rend like nails against a chalkboard. Distressed, I sat down onto my own double-sized bed and idly brushed one of my hands along Anna’s long chestnut hair. She looks so similar to me, I thought. All except for the fact that her normally soft baby face was now contorted with a mask of pain and sorrow. What’s wrong? She’s never been like this.
The crying showed no signs of stopping, and then Anna suddenly starting coughing: a dry-sounding hacking cough that made my stomach churn.
“Anna, let me get you a glass of water,” I offered, not that she was in the condition to listen, but I needed something to busy myself instead of sitting here and undergoing an emotional bombardment.

I streamed the cool water down her mouth and it seemed to help a bit, which was a relief. However, it took what felt like hours for her crying to mitigate and I finally tucked her in to sleep, even though it still only around 5 o’ clock.
5? Marcel! It completely flew past my head that we had a date in barely half an hour. Guiltily, I glanced back at Anna. She appeared to be sleeping soundly now. Quietly as to not disturb her, I got up and starting readying myself for the night.
Scanning my closet, I found lots of ordinary clothing. It just wasn’t in the budget to afford extravagant regalia, but I did have one special dress that was given to me by my mother back in my small hometown in Russia. For the first time, I snatched it off of its hook and tried it on. My goodness, it was perfect.
My mother must have had similar proportions to me, as the black dress with ruffles from the shoulder down to the waist seemed to compliment my slim body shape perfectly. The fabric also seemed to glimmer as I moved, as if dazzling stars were weaved into the midnight-dark threads. I felt a sense of womanly stability and pride from being enrobed in the gorgeous gown. It was a unique handmade gift from my mother and that sentimental value carried extensive significance.
I hoped everything would turn out well tonight. One quote comes to mind that mother told me before I immigrated to Canada, whereby she addresses me with my full traditional name: “Nataliya, like branches on a tree, we all grow in different directions yet our roots remain as one.”
She would always remain in my heart; our roots are our culture and traditions, which she instilled into me when I was young. It was something that I would carry for the rest of my life. Gradually, I drifted out of my reflections of the past and prepared for what was important, the future.
I had no time to put on any makeup or brush my hair again, but I’m sure Marcel wouldn’t mind. With one last glimpse at the dozing Anna, I commenced my journey to Auberge du Pommier.

This time, I was right on schedule, even arriving a bit early. I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back. With the address Marcel sent me, situated in the affluent corporate community of York Mills, I found myself at the front of a long cottage-like building with slanted tiled roof and a chimney on top. Bordering the building were snow-matted hedges, and in the center an arched passageway supported by four dark green columns led to the quaint entrance with the cursive words Auberge du Pommier painted on top. The whole courtyard was coated in a warm orange radiance from lamps that hung around the railing of the restaurant. It was in my dreams to ever be able to afford to go to such a high-end culinary establishment.
“Natalie!” a familiar voice called.
“Marcel!” I returned the call, as I found him turning the corner.

He was dressed in a
jet-black winter jacket with a lining of beige fur around the hood. He greeted me with a warm smile that lit up his whole face. There was no time to contemplate the rest of his outfit, he embraced me in a short hug and guided to me to the entranceway.

“What exactly does ‘Auberge du Pommier’ mean?” I inquired, as we were passing under the arch.

“Auberge means inn and Pommier is apple, together it’s called Apple Inn!” he rejoiced. “I guess I should invite you here again in the summertime. The patio would be open and the hedges and trees that are around us would be blooming with fresh foliage and fabulous flowering canopies. You could say the place reminds you of a ripe crimson apple, because it shares a spot in the lot that is my heart.”

After he said that, he stopped, placed both of his hands on his heart and then spread them wide in the air like he pretending to throw confetti. I couldn’t help but smile a little bit at his grandiose expression.

“Of course, I don’t really know why they called it Auberge du Pommier, but I do know that their food is to die for. Come on.”

Marcel popped open the door and
I was instantly captivated by the inviting ambiance of the restaurant. Honey-colored lamps lined the walls and some were placed on stout black tables, all of them creating a homey sort of feeling. There were even glass refrigerators that were filled with bottles of sparkling wine, champagne, and names of alcoholic beverages from all around the world.

It wasn’t long before a hostess greeted us. “Bonjour, my name is Laura and I welcome you to Auberge du Pommier. Do you have any reservations for this evening?” she asked.

“Yes, for a party of 2 at 5:30. Under the name of Bellerose,” Marcel answered.

She surveyed her seating list. “Let’s see… B… Ah, yes. Mr. Bellerose and company, right this way please.”

Laura led us into one of the most magnificent places I’ve ever cast my eyes upon. The walls seemed to be made out of carved white sandstone and clay, which gave a rustic vibe to the place. Engraved vanilla white columns were structured in the dining area where droves of people were sitting around satin clothed tables. It wasn’t without an auditory experience: the clinking of cutlery, the uncorking of champagne, the crackling of firewood on the hearth and the dim evening chatter filled the air.

While she guided us through the busy dining area, enticing aromas from the dishes wafted in the air and drifted into my nose. I couldn’t help but glance at the diner’s tables; I saw plates of half-eaten roast pork belly sauced in a brown au jus, tantalizing seared scallop paired up with creamy spaghetti. Admittedly, it all looked wonderfully delicious to me and I couldn’t wait to have some for my own. Finally, Laura took us to one of the quieter rooms that were adjoined with the main dining area and seated us near one of the cozy fireplaces.

“A waiter will attend to you shortly, I do hope you enjoy your evening,” Laura politely commented before returning to her duties.

Marcel returned the customary formality with a thank you and then took off his winter jacket, which prompted me to do the same. He was dressed in a simple, yet elegant black vest with a white undershirt and baby blue tie. But as I was taking off my jacket, Marcel exclaimed.

“Natalie, you look beautiful in that dress! Where did you buy it?”

Being called beautiful, on the inside I was skipping with glee. “Actually, my mother handed it down to me, I think she sewed it herself.”

“Well, she’s very talented. Oh, how truly the woman overshadows the man with her glamour and poise. It’s a pleasure to make your company again. It’s been a while hasn’t it?”

Indeed it has. I happened upon Marcel about 3 months ago while wandering through downtown Toronto. Now you might think leaving Anna home alone is foolish and dangerous to her wellbeing, but sometimes I just needed a break− a way to escape the crazy world I lived in. At the time, I believe I was just denied a job as a sales clerk because I was “not competent to fill the position.” Which to me seemed absolutely ridiculous, I still think discrimination based on gender or even ethnic origin played a role. It was something about my accent posing a challenge for customers to understand; which I thought was absurd, ludicrous, and senseless.

From then on, I was reasonably feeling miserable about the whole affair. I was still unemployed and having a stable income was a nonexistent reality. On days like those, I would let myself meld into the heart of the largest city in Canada and that meant going to Dundas Square.
There was something almost therapeutic about sitting down on a bench while the whole world revolved around you; cars streaming through what I liked to call metro canals: the streets are like the ditches and the intersections like large boundaries that diverts the flows in different directions; people in perpetual motion, walking around the sidewalks, tourists and businessmen alike going in and out of buildings; flocks of downy grey pigeons that always filled the public square when food was generously fed to them; brief jets of water that blasted from metal grilles in the ground every so often that piques the curiosity of many children who might unknowingly get doused themselves. It was there in the sprightly square that I heard a sound that entranced me.

It was something new, unknown, and made me want to dance. Music was never big in my family, hands-on work and art was much more prominent in my household. The rich, vibrant tone of an instrument cut through all of the other noise of vehicle, pedestrian and animal activity. As if being tugged on by invisible strings, I was compelled to find who and what was making the beautiful tunes. Between the columns of jet sprays sat a man in wooden stool that was playing into a shiny golden curved instrument with lots of buttons and a strap around his neck.

It was a saxophone, often mistaken to be in the brass family, but actually in the woodwind. Though I’d never heard one, I had seen it before. My attention turned to the musician. The man had curly light brown hair and carried an energetic, youthful demeanor. He was wearing a grey blazer over a white button-up shirt and wore bright red jeans. At first thought, it seemed peculiar, but it also interested me a great deal so I approached him as he was finishing a song.

“Hello, that sounded amazing!” I gushed.

“Merci beaucoup, ma dame,” he responded, but the words made no sense to me.

“I beg your pardon?”

He gave me a warm grin before talking normally again. “I apologize, you must not speak French. I said thank you very much, my lady. By the way, my name is Marcel, and you are?”

“Natalie,” I answered. “Can I ask you a few questions, about your instrument and music? I mean.”

“Natalie, what a wonderful name,” he mused. “Why of course you can, I’m all ears.” After he said that, he wiggled his ears around.

Seeing something so strange and theatrical like that made me laugh, which Marcel returned with a content smile.

“Yes, okay, questions. Haha,” I had troubles managing my laughter, but I eventually composed myself. “What is that type of music you play? I’ve never heard it before.”

“Really, you’ve never heard it before? It’s called jazz. Which to me is the pinnacle of human expression, the sweet sounds of the sax translate the feelings that come from inside. There are also a few sub-genres, such as Blues, Bebop, cool jazz, all sorts of things; but I enjoy free improvisation the most. I don’t have to follow any sheet music, I’m free from rules and I’m allowed to play how I feel when I’m in the moment.”

“That’s fascinating. It seems music makes you quite happy,” I remarked, after listening to his colorful speech.

“Very. But you know what makes me even happier?” he asked, but my only reply was a shrug. “It’s making other people happy through la musique. Let me show you.”

It didn’t take me long to realize that a lot of English words were variations of the French language, but before I could compare other linguistic similarities, Marcel started playing again. The smooth sound of the saxophone caressed my ears and bewitched my body with a mind of its own. It started off a slow and romantic melody, which made me want to do a twirl or something silly like that. After a while, the tempo changed to a rapid allegro and the tune changed to a catchy swing melody which made me start uncontrollably tapping my foot to the beat.

Marcel seemed to notice. I felt a bit embarrassed and forcefully sent a message to my foot saying: “Stop moving on your own, you’re only move when I tell you to.” I fortunately did not say that out loud, because I would be deemed crazy for talking to my own foot. He set down his saxophone, but continued the music by “scatting” with his mouth. Without any warning, he grabbed both of my hands and pulled me into a dance.

He mouthed the words “Don’t worry.”

I certainly didn’t know how to dance at all, but Marcel seemed to guide me with a natural rhythm and I relaxed a little. Even the improvised playing of the melody with his mouth carried the same entrancing effect on me, my body wanted to start moving for no reason. I had no idea what was happening, this was all new and strange, but I allowed my body to just flow with the music. He obviously knew what he was doing; he pulled me in for turns, flung me out, twirled and spun. Finally, I collapsed on the wooden stool, laughing and trying to catch my breath.

“Fun, isn’t it?” Marcel asked, also showing some signs of fatigue, but the huge grin on his face showed he was obviously delighted.

“Ye…ah,” I confirmed through shaky breaths and an equally joyful smile on my face.

That’s how it all started. Later Marcel told me he moved from Quebec to be part of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra and moreover had a job as a dance instructor, so he was busy as a bee. During his free time, he would go to public spaces like Dundas Square and share his lively passion of music to others.

“Yes, it’s been a while,” I repeated back dreamily, as I was brought back to the homey atmosphere of Auberge du Pommier.

“Tell me, how did your job interview go today?” Marcel asked.

It was all coming back to me, the events that conspired earlier in the day. “Less than desirable,” I replied.

A tinge of concern was visible by his raised eyebrows. “Why? What happened?”

“Well, when I was−”

I was interrupted by a blonde waitress setting a tray on our table with what looked like an assortment of bread, cheese, and honey.

“Here is your complimentary appetizer to enjoy. With house-baked rosemary bread, some fresh goat’s cheese, aged blue cheese, and a cup of warm honey to drizzle over it,” she explained, each word like “house-baked rosemary bread” made my mouth water and it seemed to have the same effect on Marcel. “And, if you’re ready to order now…”

“Ah, yes. Natalie and I will each have the Bisque de Potiron & Cruśtacés as an appetizer. For the main course, we’ll both having the Agneau−”
“Natalie, lamb is fine for you?” he paused his ordering to ask.
I nodded. Agneau, I figured meant lamb, but it sounded much more like someone hocking up phlegm. Barinina, the Russian way to say lamb, sounded much more tasteful.
“That’s all for now. Thank you,” Marcel finished telling the waitress.
She cheerfully acknowledged us and left the table. Before we continued our conversation, I just had to try the delicious platter set in front of me. Several discs of the aforementioned rosemary baked bread were fanned out besides “ramps” of cheese (because they were cut in a triangle and laid down on its side, looking like ramps), a small metal knife and finally a porcelain cup filled to the rim with golden honey.
“Ladies first,” Marcel insisted, as both of our eyes were glazed at the platter.
Gentlemen, I thought with amusement. But I heartily accepted and sliced myself a big glob of the goat’s milk cheese onto my bread, drizzled a bit of honey, and indulged. It was years since I tasted goat’s milk cheese, back in my homeland it was quite abundant, and the smooth pungent taste brought back memories. Along with the crunchy herbaceous bread and supple honey, it was a bite of heaven. I must have been looking quite unfeminine of me, because I was voraciously devouring the bread, but Marcel had a playful smile on his face. The whole tray was finished before conversation started again.
“Mhm… c’est fantastique, just wait for the Bisque,” Marcel said, his taste buds obviously satisfied and were wanting more. “So, after that delicious interruption, tell me. What happened during your interview today?”
For whatever reason, I hesitated. The memory of the man’s voice came back to haunt me.
“Well… I never showed up,” I quickly came up with an answer.
“Why not?” he asked dumbfounded.
“First off, my bus arrived late because of the icy road conditions and congested traffic,” I started to explain. “Then, by the time I got to the subway station, it was 3:23. The train hadn’t arrived yet and the actual ride to the interview would take about 10 minutes.”
Marcel seemed to be analyzing the situation in his mind. “Now, I didn’t major in mathematics. Even if you arrived a bit late, sure it would be a small problem, but I don’t see why you cancelled the whole thing.”
He was right. What was I saying? I’m being ridiculous. Yet, I didn’t want him to be involved with personal matters like someone stealing my phone and demanding a ransom.
“Marcel… I−” I stopped, my tongue was caught again. His look of suspicion that was being directed at me wasn’t doing any good either. I felt like an animal being backed up into a corner.
“I was standing in the subway and someone in the subway knocked me over. There. Happy?” I said, the words slipping out of my mouth.
“Happy?” Marcel instantly retorted. “I’m just merely concerned about you and was asking you about how your job interview went. It’s not like I’m interrogating you for an answer. Knocked over? People should watch where they’re going when they’re walking on those busy station platforms.”
“Yeah, that’s why I decided not to go to the job interview because not only did I miss the train, my ribs were hurting and I wasn’t in the state for a good presentation of myself,” I replied, hoping it was a sufficient reason for not going, and enough to not induce further questions from Marcel.
He gave me a peculiar look I’d never seen before, skeptical and calculating. Although it didn’t last for long, his face returned back to the normal upbeat and playful expression. Fortunately, he had seemed to either accept my answer or silently doubt it, either way he decided to switch to a different topic.
“Natalie, don’t you think calling me “hotter than a thousand suns” is a bit over the top?” Marcel questioned.
Was this a trick question? He said it in a jokingly way, but I didn’t know how to respond besides: “Well, of course. You’re much more like a cool cat, wearing fancy shades, a tutu, and tap dance shoes.”
That granted a laugh from Marcel, but afterwards, he said something that confused me. “You should’ve sent that one to me instead, that was way better than your comparison of me to a thousand gaseous burning balls.”
I managed a tiny giggle, but then I never recalled sending him a text message of that sort in the first place. How odd, something didn’t fit here. Oh no… the man who has my phone must have sent Marcel messages, impersonating me.

“Marcel, when did you receive that message?” I probed.
“Around 5, right before I was getting in the car to drive here,” he answered factually. “Why?”
“Oh! That explains it then. I was quite in the rush and couldn’t make up a good joke on the spot. I admit it was one of my poorer attempts,” I lied.
“No worries. I appreciate all kinds of jokes, even bad jokes, they bring joy to my life,” he replied lightheartedly. “Look, I think there’s our Bisque being brought to our table now.”
Indeed, the same blonde haired waitress from before came with two dishes filled with a pumpkin-orange soupy mixture.
“Your Bisque de Potiron & Cruśtacés, enjoy,” she regarded formally, before attending to another nearby table.
“Is this pumpkin?” I asked out of curiosity.
“No, but close. It’s kabocha squash, similar to butternut squash if you’ve ever had that, though it’s much sweeter. That’s the potiron component of the bisque which is basically a thick soup. Cruśtacés means crustaceans, so lobster, crab, shellfish and that stuff. In this particular bisque, you’ll find some pieces of succulent lobster in the mixture, along with some spiced coconut. I love having it in the winter because it just warms your whole body, sort of like French version of chicken noodle soup− without the chicken and the noodles.”
Even with the heated restaurant environment and crackling fireplace, I felt unusually cold on the inside and started spooning the squash soup into my mouth. How do I describe it? The sweetness from the lobster really came through in the broth, mixed with the velvety squash and subtle coconut after tone, it simply did warm up my body like Marcel described. Sip after sip, the chills in my body were slowly melted away by delectable creamy soup.
“Mmm mmm mhm!” I heard Marcel express his feelings of pleasurable food. He rubbed his belly like he was Santa and joked: “If I have any more of this, I’ll have a belly like Santa, but I’ll certainly be jolly. That’s for sure.”
Together, we finished the rest of the warming bisque, and Marcel even wanted to lick the last drops on the side of the dish, but I constrained him from doing so with a firm “We’re in a formal establishment.” However, I knew he was just kidding and I certainly wanted some more of this Bisque de Potiron & Cruśtacés if I ever got the chance.
“Main course will be coming soon. Roasted lamb shank with−”
Out of nowhere, the familiar Christmas tune of “Let it Snow” started playing.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Marcel apologized before searching his pockets for his phone.
“-weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. And since we’ve no place to go. Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it−”
“Hello. Marcel here,” he answered, just cutting off the last word of the melody.
It must be one of his colleagues in the orchestra or perhaps from his dance studio. Coincidentally, when I peered outside the window, snow was steadily falling outside.
“Yes, who’s speaking?”
So he didn’t immediately recognize the person whom he was speaking to, no matter. My attention was still glued to the angel pyli, or angel’s dust, as my mother and I liked to call the delicate powder of snowflakes. The pewter-white dust was blotting out the sidewalks and compounding on top of the previously remaining snow.
“How did you know?”
It wasn’t a happy sounding “How did you know?” Not like “How did you know it was my birthday!” this was more displeased sounding. Concerned, I turned away from the window to read Marcel’s expression: furrowed eyebrows and intense eyes.
“No, why?” he asked irritably, raising his voice.
Cautiously, I glanced at the tables around us, hoping none of the diners were taking notice. At the moment, they were engrossed in conversation or savoring the fine French cuisine. Out of the blue, I heard Marcel snap.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?”
Marcel shut off his phone with visible frustration. Around me I could hear the clinking of cutlery and dim chatter pause. Without turning around, I could feel the eyes of people burning into the back of my head.
“Marcel,” I warned in a hushed voice.
He glanced at me then around him and quickly caught on to the effect of his outburst. “Sorry, I was talking to one of those annoying telemarketers. He asked me: ‘Have you ever wanted a more toned butt or thighs? Get the BuThigh Max−’ I’m like: ‘Sorry, not with that name.’”
Several of the diners, specifically the male ones, had a little chuckle. That made their dates shoot them a disgusted look. More or less, the diners resumed doing what they were doing before. It amazed me how Marcel could come up with things at the top of his head with ease. I hoped that he didn’t actually get a call about getting a more toned butt during our date, because that would be a little bit awkward.
“Don’t worry. It wasn’t a call about ‘BuThigh Max,’” he reassured, as he made air quotations when he said the product name. “I made it up. Although, there was something out of the ordinary about the call…”

(The actual phone conversation)

“Hello. Marcel here,” he answered, just cutting off the last word of the melody.
“Bonjour Mr. Bellerose,” he emphasized the name with a sly accent.
“Yes, who’s speaking?”
“Oh, you should know me already. I sure hope I’m not interrupting your romantic date,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“How did you know?”
“Telepathy,” he answered with a laugh. “I won’t keep you two lovebirds waiting for long. But have you ever wondered how Natalie actually supports herself while she’s unemployed?”
“No, why?” Marcel asked irritably, raising his voice.
“Wonderful! Another man who’s being blindly dragged along by a woman who has a rather explicit secret,” he counseled sympathetically. “Here’s some advice for you: dump her. See how she feels−”
“Just who the hell do you think you are?”
“You should know−”

“What was it?” I asked, staring into Marcel’s deep ocean-blue eyes, but they seem troubled.
“Well first off, he knew my name and also yours. Secondly, he knew we were on a date. Finally, he repeatedly said that I should already know him, even though he never mentioned his name.”
Marcel looked back at me inquisitively, like I should know who this is. I had an inkling of who it was, because no one else knew we would be having 5:30 date at Auberge. This game of lies, I hated it. I didn’t want to involve Marcel in this, but the man had forced his hand.
“I might know who it is,” I started, expecting Marcel to question me. However, when there was only silence, I continued. "The man who knocked me down the subway station, I think he also stole my phone."
“So you don’t have your phone right now?”
I shook my head no.
“Natalie, I’m looking for words. Not shaking your head. I don’t know why you’re holding back information. At the beginning, why didn’t you mention that you also lost your phone in the subway? Did you call your number back?”
By impulsion I was about to nod my head again, but I caught myself. “Yes.”
“And…?” Marcel didn’t say it, but I could see it in his expectant expression.
“He admitted that he stole my phone, and that he was also one of the nation’s greatest hackers. He said that he could leak my personal information and wreak havoc on my social life, which is happening now.”
After I said it, I dropped my head down because I couldn’t bear to hear Marcel’s response. Silent tension filled the air, until the bright voice of a waitress broke it.
“Your main course, Agneau. Bon appetite.”
She could probably sense the lovers’ tension too and didn’t want any part of it. After she set down the plates, she smartly left without another word.

Consciously, my attention drifted to the dish on the table. Beautifully seared lamb shank resting on a bed of Swiss chard, along with some chopped carrots and what looked like meatballs.

“What are th−” I began to ask.

“Sausage croquettes,” he answered before I even finished the question. “Natalie, don’t try to change the subject. Look, you lied to me. You’re still unemployed too. Promise me you’ll give an honest answer when I ask you this question.”

I could feel him staring intently at me, yet my head was still ducked. Natalie, get a hold of yourself. If this relationship with Marcel was important to me at all, I would have to be truthful to him. Lies are like tiny hidden cracks on the bottom of a plate, every lie forming more non repairable incisions until something simply touches it and the whole thing shatters. I didn’t want that to happen.

“I promise,” I said as I met his eyes.

“How do you support yourself when you’re unemployed?”

It certainly wasn’t the serious question I was expecting, but I still answered to the best of my ability. “Well since I’m qualified for Ontario Works, they provide me with financial assistance for my basic needs like food and shelter. With that service, I also do some temporary jobs to make some money. Though, you know that I’m still diligently looking for that stable job.”

Marcel seemed convinced. It was all truth. I applied Anna and me for Ontario Works which was part of the province’s ministry of community and social services. A caseworker reviewed our documents and found us eligible for financial assistance. On top of that, I meet with the caseworker frequently to discuss my employment options, but as shown by recent events, not much luck.

“Is there something you’re leaving out?” Marcel questioned again.

I assumed the honesty agreement was still in effect, so I guess now was the time to tell him. “Marcel…I…I have a daughter.”

His face went from shocked to analytical to angry.

“So you’ve been having an affair with me for the past 3 months?”

“No, no!” I noticed I was on the verge of yelling and catching the diners’ attention again, so I turned it down to a whisper. “Marcel, I had a previous husband. We divorced. I’m a single mother caring for a 3-year-old daughter.”

Marcel went quiet; it was his turn to drop his head down. I would’ve told him earlier, but it’s not one of those common conversation topics: “Oh how was your day?” “Great, I thought I’d just let you know I had a daughter.” No, it didn’t happen like that. I felt guilty keeping the secret for so long and couldn’t bear watching Marcel’s remorse, or maybe contempt? I couldn’t tell, silence was the only reply. The lamb still sat on the dish, untouched, and probably getting cold. Lamb to the Slaughter − a short story by Roald Dahl. It was a book that I had read some time ago, the title and theme of the story was coming back.

“Marcel… I’m sorry. Honestly, I am,” I tried getting him to talk, anything but torturous silence.

Without lifting his head up, he asked in a gruff voice. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“Sorry, it’s not like−”

“No, I understand. We’ve only known each other for 3 months. It’s not like you can confess to a stranger that you have a daughter, there’s little opportunity. So you hide it as an explicit secret. Well I’m glad I finally know.”

Each word seemed to distance the bond we had between each other.

“Marcel, I’m sorry.” I knew it was weak, but I didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t in my personality to place an ultimatum on him like: “Look, I have a daughter. But if you really love me, then this relationship will continue.”

For some reason, I also doubted that Marcel told me everything that was said in that phone conversation, because I knew for a fact that it was the no-good asswipe that called his number. That meant all the other contacts on my phone could easily be called, harassed or threatened, and they might think it’s me. I glanced back at Marcel, but he had a pained look on his face, as if struggling to decide between two sides− an internal war.

“Natalie,” he finally said, but not with gentleness, more of a command.

His expression was unclear, I couldn’t tell if he was mad or accepted of the fact. From his hand he dropped off a hundred dollar bill on the table and simply looked at me, but it felt like he was looking right through me.

“Come with me,” he said with that same commanding tone. He gestured to put on my jacket. As soon as I had it on, he grabbed my hand and forcefully led me to the restaurant door. Diners and staff seemed to take notice, but no one stopped us. After passing through the foyer, Marcel popped open the entrance door and we were suddenly met by the chilly gale of winter. Snow was still falling and gradually transforming parked cars into fluffy clouds of white.

The door shut behind us with a tiny thud. No people milled along the sidewalks and the roads were vacant of running cars. It was just Marcel and I, standing under the orange radiance emitted from lamps around the restaurant. He loosened his grip on my hands and sighed, creating wisps of visible smoke in the frigid air.

“Sorry for that,” Marcel apologized, with a genuine feeling to them. “Look, Natalie…”

He didn’t mean it in a literal sense, because there was nothing to look at: just angel’s dust that was slowly getting on both of our hair and clothing. He seemed to be searching for the right words to say.

“Natalie… you just put me into a situation so abruptly. I didn’t know how to react. So you have a 3-year-old daughter…what’s her name?”

“Anna,” I replied and decided to add. “It means grace.”

“Anna…” Marcel repeated, as if he trying something new for the first time. “What a gorgeous name.”

“It was one of the few things I had control of in my past relationship. Anna is beautiful, you should go meet…” Something caught my tongue again. It was really getting annoying, but Marcel thankfully continued.

“In fact, that was what I was thinking. I thought: ‘If I’m going to be in a serious relationship with someone, I have to give it a chance.’ So Natalie, if you’ll let me go meet your daughter…”

Oh, Marcel. “If I’m going to be in a serious relationship with someone,” and that someone meant me, I thought with a glee. I stared into Marcel’s eyes, they stared back. I could tell he meant it, he was serious. Was I ready for this? Natalie, get a grip on yourself. This time that phrase was used quite differently though. Of course I was ready. Marcel was an attractive guy. I mean a jazz musician, dancer, and had a fun personality; there were so many things to list.

“Yes!” I exclaimed with maybe too much enthusiasm.

Marcel smiled his cute wide grin. Hand in hand, we walked down the courtyard, under the arch and to his car. Each step in the layer of snow making a soft crunching, and the sky still filled with an uncountable amount of falling snow. The final stanza of “Let it Snow” came back to me and I sang it in my head.


“The fire is slowly dying
But, my dear, we’re still goodbying
But as long as you love me so
Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!”

It was quiet when we arrived back at my suburban home. I unlocked the door and invited Marcel inside. Without having to look, I flicked on the light switch and took off my jacket and shoes like normal routine. It was a decent sized house, two bedrooms, one washroom, small kitchen, a basement, and a living room. I suggested Marcel wait on the coach while I went and got Anna.

She must be still sleeping, because there was not a peep when I unlocked the door to our shared bedroom. I decided to not turn on the lights, as I didn’t want to suddenly wake up Anna. The room was drenched in an eerie pale light from the blinds. I paced over to the toddler bed where I left her. Gently, I wrapped my arms around my baby and lifted her up.

“Anna,” I whispered to her. “Mommy’s home and there’s someone who would love to meet you.”

No sound. In the dim light, her face wasn’t really visible. I decided not to bother her much more for the moment. I would let her wake up in the living room. Back in the lighted hallway, I saw Marcel standing up and sniffing the air. As I arrived in front of him I asked: “Is something wrong?”

“Don’t you smell something strange in the air?” he asked, sniffing again.

I tried sniffing the air, but I didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. “No, I don’t.”

“It smells like burnt rubber. Can’t you smell it?”

Again, I whiffed the air, but nothing seemed off. I shook my head no. Marcel seemed confused, but turned his attention to the wrapped baby in my arms. Now in better light conditions, I saw that Anna was indeed still asleep, as her eyes were closed shut.

“You can have a better look when I set her on the coach.”

We sat down on the coach and I unraveled Anna from the blanket. Her long chestnut hair was strewn all over the place. I would have to brush it for her in the morning.

“Can I hold her?” Marcel requested timidly.

I figured his timidity was due to never holding a baby, or at least someone else’s child. Still, I gently passed Anna to his arms. Although he fumbled a bit to get a natural-feeling position, the sight of him holding my baby made me feel strange. Not strange as in Paranormal Activity whatever number they’re at now, but a happy sort of strange. Like the first time I heard him play at Dundas Square, it was new and exciting, this felt the same.

“Anna…” Marcel cooed in a loving tone. “Anna… Wake up.”

Slowly but surely, Anna was animate again, starting with wiggling her fingers and toes until blinking her eyes a few times before fully opening them. Eyes with a deep hazel color, just like my own. She didn’t seem shocked to be in another person’s embrace. In fact she was taking it in quite well.

“Anna, this is Marcel,” I introduced. “Can you say hello? Just like I taught you.”

She opened her mouth like she was trying to say it, but then a cough came out. Just one lonesome cough, but it was enough to raise some concern.


“Is she sick?” Marcel asked.

“Yes, she developed the cold today. I just put her to bed before I went to the date.”

“Have you given her any medication? Like Tylenol or Advil?”

“No, I haven’t. Let me go check if I have any.”

I left the two of them alone and I went to search the cabinets. It was doubtful I’d find any though. Anna was usually healthy and I’ve never needed to keep medicine at home. I didn’t regularly take any prescribed medicine either.

“Nope, I don’t see any,” I announced back to Marcel, who seemed to be leaning in towards Anna.

Without warning, she punched him in the nose and started giggling.

“Ow,” he simply remarked. Marcel pulled back and used his free hand to rub his nose.

I couldn’t help but laugh a little too. Anna had certainly never done that to me, but I knew now that she had a kung fu move or two up her sleeve for unsuspecting visitors. After Marcel recovered from the sucker punch, he asked: “Are you going to the pharmacy to go buy some medication then?”

“I will, I just have to go grab my purse,” I answered.

“Want me to drive you?” Marcel offered.

“No, it’s okay. It’s not too far from here,” I reassured.

He nodded and returned to fighting the baby, this time with intense laser-eyed glares. She returned the glare back with wide focused eyes.

“Oh, and before I forget, I should call back Nolan. I’ll see if I can’t convince him to give me a second chance for that job interview.”

Marcel murmured what sounded like a “Sounds good,” and remained locked in the intergenerational clash of man vs. baby. Just on the counter, I located my home phone. A red light flashed on and off and “1 unheard voice messages” appeared on the screen. Should I click it? No. Who knows who it’s from? Marcel’s here. I ignored the message and dialed Nolan’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, yes. This is Natalie. I was supposed to come to your job interview for a Russian/English interpreter/translator today.”

“Yes… Natalie. I remember now, you’re the woman who didn’t show up.

“Sorry about that. Something urgent came up. I’m wondering if we could reschedule it for another date.”

“Hmm… I haven’t found any other candidates, so that would be fine. After Christmas though, I’m spending time with my family. Make sure to show up this time.”

“Okay! That would be fine.”

“Okay, I will be going now.”

The phone line cut, but I had a plan to do something else.

“Hello? Nolan? Are you still there? Hello? Wow, he must have hung up on me. Let me redial.”

I made sure each word was clear and audible to Marcel. I punched in the numbers again, but this time, to my cellular device. For whatever reason, that same anxiety enveloped me as I heard each ring go and no answer. Finally, he picked up.

“Hello Natalie,” he said my name slowly.

“Hello, is Nolan there?”

“Who’s Nolan?” he asked, undeniably confused. “I’m sure you’ve received my voice call. How about the deal?”

“Can I speak to Nolan?” I repeated.

“Look girl, I don’t know what kind of silly game you’re playing but−”

“Nolan! Hello, I’m sorry about today. What’s this deal you’re talking about?”

“My name is not Nolan! It’s−,” he stopped short. “Anyway, the deal is that instead of giving me $10 000, you’re going to exchange me 2 pounds of marijuana for your phone.”

“What makes you think I have−”

“I’m not stupid. I saw your emails with that buyer who wanted the weed tomorrow. But instead, you’ll be handing that over to me. Or else…”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I’ll report you to the police.”

The tables had completely flipped around. Since that original phone call where I threatened him I would report him to the police, though something caught my tongue at the time and I never said it. It made sense. My phone was synced up to my email, he had access to it.

“Fine,” I said defiantly. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Dundas Square, at 8 tonight,” he replied.

“Okay, bye,” I tried to terminate the call as soon as possible.

“Toodles−”

I shut off the phone and put it back onto the stand. I glanced over at Marcel. It appeared that he was still focused on playing with Anna. His expression was that of intense ferocity, his eyes were struggling not to blink. Anna on the other hand, stared back leisurely, like it was nothing to her. Then she coughed, and then they both lost.


“Marcel,” I called, and he looked over. “I’ll be grabbing my purse and heading out. I trust you to watch over Anna for a little while.”

“Of course,” he replied. “She’s not only beautiful; she’s feisty, but also sick. So come home quick with the medicine.”

I had left my purse in my room, so I went there to grab it. This time around, I flicked the lights on, as there was no sleeping baby to disturb. In the mirror, I saw my own reflection: a medium height Russian woman with long chestnut hair flowing to her shoulders, and still wearing her mother’s dress.
“How did the night go?” I could imagine my mother asking.
Good, would be my first response, but my mother would smile knowingly.
“Just good? Nothing else?”
Even though we had sort of a fight, an unknown man still had my phone, and I had troubles supporting my daughter. Ah, but she’s not here now. I wish I could tell someone all this stuff, especially someone I could trust like my mother. I didn’t waste any more time thinking of old times. Shutting off the lights, I headed outside.

Dundas Square was about a 15 minutes journey, close to the time it would take me to go to the pharmacy and get medicine. I hoped that Marcel wouldn’t suspect anything. The train doors opened with a dissonant three-note chime and I successfully boarded. There were still many people onboard at this time, heading to unknown and possibly explicit destinations like my own. After four station stops, it was my time to get off. I climbed the stairs quickly and was once again wrapped in a shivery squall.
The snow had not stopped; it appeared to be falling even thicker than before. That made my travel a bit slower, but I finally reached the bustling metropolitan intersection− Dundas Square. At night the buildings that held massive electronic screens were animated with various rolling ads, snow-covered neon signs were alit, cars were streaming around like usual and I still saw some figures walking in the blizzard. I crossed the street to the square and surveyed the area.
It was 7:58 according to my watch. The man didn’t really specify where in Dundas Square we would meet, so I just stood near where the water jet sprays were. The Square itself was decorated for the holidays, strings of multicolored Christmas lights adorned the naked trees, and the jet sprays seemed to be tinged a different color each time it shot up. My guess was that they somehow placed color changing lights under the metal grilles and that light illuminated the droplets. Christmas music also filled the air, being projected from unseen speakers around the Square. Appropriately, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” was playing.
My watch did the quiet electronic beep as it did every top of the hour. I scanned my surroundings. Some people were just milling around the square, but they didn’t look like they had an apparent initiative being there besides enjoying the Christmas lights or saying: “Heck, it’s a winter storm outside. Let me run outside naked.”
Thankfully, I spotted no wild naked people running through the square, but I also didn’t find the man whom I was supposed to meet with. Then, out of the corner of the furthest jet spray, a man was walking directly towards me.
Not until he was five steps away from me did he talk. “Natalie?”
So it was him. “Yes, and I still don’t know your name.”
He shot me a devilish grin. “I know, but it’s not important anyways.”
“So, the deal,” I tried to get the conversation back on track.
I did rough measurements of the man in my head. He was slightly taller, but prominently bigger than me; I would lose in a straight fight if it came down to it. But his larger physique meant that he was also slower.
“Ah yes, the pay dirt,” he mused. “Here’s your phone.”
Briefly, he pulled out a slim HTC Desire phone in a light blue case that resembled my own before stuffing it back in his pockets.
“And your end of the deal?” he requested.
“First off, you already broke a portion of the deal. You promised ‘no permanent repercussions for a small fee.’ Yet, you messed with my phone and called Marcel.”
“Hmm… But do you have no have any proof? No,” he laughed. “Come on now, show me the marijuana.”
I promoted him from his title of no-good asswipe to a no-good druggie asswipe. Still, I unzipped my purse and grabbed out a sealed bag of marijuana. Briefly, as he did, I flashed him the bag and put it back into my purse.
“That doesn’t look like two pounds,” he examined.
“Well, are you holding it to know how heavy it is?” I countered.
I couldn’t see his face clearly with his hood on, but he seemed to be wearing a crooked smile.
“Maybe I shouldn’t underestimate you,” he speculated in a wry tone.
What was that supposed to mean? “How are we going to do this deal?”
“Well, we’ll hand each other our items at the same time.”
“How do I know you won’t just take the drugs and run?”
“I promise I won’t,” he replied in an obviously fake manner.
What was I supposed to do? I had no other choice. If I wanted my phone back, I would have to give him the marijuana. Not that I wanted possession of it any longer anyway. I wanted to come clean, especially now that Marcel was a big part of my life. Car honks sounded distant and all was quiet except for our breaths of smoke in the air. Subconsciously, I heard music playing in the background. “Carol of the Bells,” performed by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, I recognized the tune.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I declared, but it was mostly directed at myself.
The man grabbed out the phone from his pocket with his right hand. I unzipped my purse and did the same. In a few steps he closed the distance between us and was uncomfortably close to me.
“On the count of three,” he whispered. “3…”
I saw that he was holding the blue cased phone in his right hand palm up, so I held the bag in my left. I figured it would be easier to grab my phone with my right hand.
“2…”
I was preparing to extend the arm that held the item and he seemed to be mirroring me.
“1.”
It was as if time distorted for a moment, because several things happened in quick succession, each event clearly depicted in my eyes. First, we both reached for the item in the other’s hands. Second, I felt the bag being yanked out of my hand forcefully. Third, I reach over to grab my phone, but something held taut. He was still clenched onto the phone.
I used both hands to try to pry it out of his fingers, but he flung his other arm and whacked across the face. My grip was loosened, but not gone.
“Let go!” I growled.
“Ah…” I heard him say. “That felt amazing.”
He was preparing for another attack and before I had time to dodge, he pounded my jaw with his fist. Sharp pulsating pain radiated from my mandible. I decided to let go of the phone because I knew I wouldn’t get it this way.
“All those times when they said: ‘You can’t hit girls.’ Well I just did! It fel−”
Before he finished off his oh so inspirational speech, I used all my force to drive my foot at every man’s weak spot. He jerked back with pain, though still holding the phone. This was my chance. While he was recovering, I used both my hands to grab him and direct him towards one of the nearby metal grilles. On cue, a jet of fuchsia-pink pressurized water blasted out and drenched his body.
The phone.
I used all my remaining force to reach for the phone in his right hand. Miraculously, it was loose in his hand and I managed to get a hold on it. Just as I was about to snatch it out, he locked my arm with his free hand in a vise-like grip. His hood was blown off and I get see his face clearly now.
Messy black hair that was plastered to his face and dripping with water. He looked like a crazed lunatic that just got out of the shower. It wouldn’t be long before the water froze in the subzero temperature. Incrementally, he tightened his grip around my arm until tendrils of pain arced up my whole right side. Ragged breaths escaped from the man’s mouth.
“You scum,” he spat the words with venom. “I admit I was just going to run off with the phone after I got the marijuana. But you had to be a little wretch and douse me in freezing water…Oh, now you’ll get it.”
Out of nowhere, his knee connected brutally with my stomach. Gut-wrenching pain made me double over. Over and over, he kept striking me with his knee. Each connection making agonizing pain build and build. Before long, my vision started to blur and tilt precariously. Where was the naked person running in a winter storm to call the police when you needed him? I thought with grim humor.
Reluctantly, I forfeited my grip on the phone and just tried to protect myself as best as possible against the repeated blows. There was no escape, his hand still clamped on like a snake unwillingly to let go off its prey. At the back of my head, I thought I heard the blaring siren of a police car, but I couldn’t be sure. The world seemed to be spinning, burning pain seared through my entire body until I couldn’t think straight.
“That’s right. You stupid woman,” I could faintly hear him say.
“I’m the man and you’re−”
Everything turned groggy, his voice seemed to distort and eventually fade. One last look at the spiraling lights and I blacked out.

When I awoke, I still felt light-headed. There was a peculiar sensation of numbing coldness that enveloped most of my body. I tried opening my eyes, but the world was still lopsided. Instead, I lay there with my eyes shut, trying to recall what just happened and how I got here. Broken up phrases floated into my ear, but I couldn’t piece together what it meant in my muddled condition.

“Andrew, I don’t get why…” “Claudine, she…” “That doesn’t mean you can…” “Drugs and alcohol and…” “Andrew… help…” “Marcel, I can’t…”

More voices joined the conversation and I couldn’t take it anymore, so I quit listening just tried to stop my head from swimming. Everything was peaceful; it was almost as if I could just fall asleep here. In the bed made of cushiony soft snow. Snow? Raggedly, I moved my arms and legs, I felt powdery mixture fall off them. There seemed to be someone approaching me as the sound of crunching footsteps got closer.

“Natalie,” a man’s voice called. “Natalie, wake up. Now’s not the time to be making snow angels.”

Slowly, I cracked open my eyes to see who it was. There seemed to be multiple images of the person floating in and out, but they eventually focused to form one figure. I could notice that curly light brown hair and deep ocean-blue eyes anywhere.

“Marcel?” I asked, my voice barely a mumble.

“Yes, it is. Let me help you up.”

He offered an arm and I graciously accepted. As I got up, a cascade of feathery snow fell back over the imprint my body made in the snow. There was an illustration of a mangled snow angel if I’ve ever seen one: bent arms and one leg of the angel larger than the other. Oh well. My attention turned back to figuring out where I was and how Marcel got here.

“Marcel… I’m still a bit woozy,” I warned as my legs felt on the verge of collapsing.

Without a word, Marcel wrapped his arm around my shoulder and supported my weight. We started heading somewhere. After the dizziness passed, I recognized the place. Dundas Square. Where was the man who stole my phone? Did he get away?

“Marcel, where’s−”

“The police have him. They found him to be in possession of marijuana and therefore facing questioning. I asked for them to ask you questions another time about the event.”

“How did you−” He cut me off again.

“Natalie, I’m perceptive. Don’t think for a second that I’m not. There’s lots of small clues that I can connect the dots with. I know you grow marijuana in your basement and sell it. It’s how you make money when there are hard times. It pays off, but it’s illegal. You only did it minimally, just enough to get along and not to attract too much attention. However, you wanted to be clean and have a normal source of income. So you harvested your whole batch and planned to sell it tomorrow to a buyer. That was also why you were late for the job interview, was it not?”

All the stuff I tried to conceal carefully, revealed in the matter of one night. I looked at Marcel, he didn’t seem angry. What do I say now? All the stuff he said was true. He must have taken my silence for a “Yes.” He had expected it.

“I see,” he replied, even though I never answered. “Andrew was in a similar position.”

“Who’s Andrew?” I questioned.

“He was the man who stole your phone. I went to high school with him. We were quite good friends, but we went our separate paths after graduation. He pursued the computer/technological studies that he was interested in, while I pursued a musical/dance career. Not after one year in college, he met a woman named Claudine. She convinced him to move back to her home city of Toronto. He was obviously infatuated with her, just the fact he quit his studies to follow her. Soon after they arrived, she stole whatever remaining money he had and ditched him.”

I was speechless. I haven’t told Marcel what had happened between my ex-husband and me, but that last line rang a bell in me. Soon after we had Anna, he decided for whatever reason to take possessions I had and simply leave. Ironically, he was a police officer, someone who was supposed to work for the law, not against. I didn’t have much claim against him either, since we never had an official wedding with formal documentation. So he left and I was left to become an independent single mother.


Marcel continued his story. “That drove him a bit mad. Not only was he cheated on, he had no money. He took up a life of crime to get it, he was desperate. Using the technological skills he had, he often hacked cell phones and enjoyed messing around with other people’s lives. Yet, any money he seemed to make, he spent it on buying alcohol and drugs. I assume that he was trying to mend a bottomless pit that formed after Claudine left him. He had developed a hate towards women, I felt it during his phone call at Auberge. The only visible difference between you and Andrew is that you had a daughter to support.”

It was startling how similar Andrew’s situation was to mine. We were both cheated by their partner and there was a permanent repercussion. He had an insatiable desire to fill that void in his life, while I was stuck as a single mother. We both turned to illegal ways to get money. The difference is that my money went to Anna. That was the reason: I had to care for another human being in my life besides myself. I couldn’t help but sympathize with Andrew.

He got the short end of the stick. Not everyone in the world is good. In a world where money plays an intrinsic role, some people will go to extremes to get it. All people have dark sides as well as good sides. You can’t trust someone to always be truthful; no one goes without lying at least once. Everyone has a selfish side to them; it’s just a matter of how much. Love is priceless.

All these thoughts flowed through my head as Marcel walked me back to his car. Did I feel a bit guilty that Andrew was being sent to jail, while I’m not? I didn’t know. It was a strange feeling. I just met him today, yet he basically had the same background as me. I was with a loving partner, while he wasn’t. I had a beautiful daughter to care about, while he doesn’t. I didn’t know how I felt. I just stared out the car windshield at the falling snow.

I felt Marcel’s hand meet mine and dropped the HTC Desire phone. Just to be sure, I turned it on. Surprisingly, it still unlocked with the passcode I had before. I tapped the messages and it still showed the message from Marcel earlier in the day. I scrolled back to the main screen and saw the date “December 24th, 2012.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” I commented.

“Yeah, I know, moya amour.” Marcel replied.

I recognized it immediately: moya, the Russian “my”, amour, the French “love”.

He turned on the radio. Not for the first time today, a fitting song was playing:
“All I want for Christmas is You.”

That ending is over the top cheesy. Oh well. I have a paragraph up there explaining the themes within the story. Lots of other things influenced me in the writing of the story. When I was younger, I had travelled to Toronto to visit some relatives there. That explains my description of Dundas Square, one of my favorite places the whole trip. I remembered Toronto as a bustling metropolis, always moving, and people everywhere. That’s why I chose it as the setting.
Christmas is around the corner and that explains all the holiday themes in the story. I wouldn’t be writing a story in the winter about spring. Christmas songs always play on the radio this time of year and I found it an important part of the magic of this season. So I included that in there.
On the topic of Marcel Bellerose: he’s basically the guy I always wanted to be. Well maybe not a dancer, but he’s part of my “artistic” side of my persona. I love jazz music, even though I don’t play a jazz instrument. He’s quite funny and also exudes lots of humor that I don’t usually show. I do have a sense of humor though, as you can see through my writing.
Auberge du Pommier is an actual French restaurant in the York Mills area of Toronto. Personally, I’ve never been inside or try the cuisine. But with online resources, I was able to view and actually “walk” through the restaurant so I could develop a genuine feel of it. Online menus were also available at the Auberge website, that’s where I got the food items.
Ontario Works is real and does provide for people in need. People meet with caseworkers where they review documents and determine eligibility for assistance.
Lastly, the topic of Natalie. She’s based off the woman from Lamb to the Slaughter, but this time she doesn’t kill her husband. Also, I wanted to have a female as the protagonist so I could explore new areas. For example, when she gets denied a job due to gender discrimination (though it’s not written on paper by the company), she was completely “competent” for the job. I had actually thought out the background of Natalie much further, but it never showed up in the story. She has a Ph.D in Humanities, but was looking for something else in life and ultimately decided to immigrate to Canada. Her mom was a seamstress, but she was also a sculptor. She passed those skills onto Natalie, but she doesn’t have the supplies or time to do the art anymore. Which changes due to her newfound love, Marcel.
I hope you enjoyed this novel, I would appreciate any compliments, constructive criticism or comments that you can give. It helps me to grow as a writer.