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a couple of years ago; he’d avert his eyes the whole time I was getting out of my clothes, even though he was going to spend the next three hours staring intently at my naked body and painting, oh, say, my pubic hair. I went over to take his order. He looked up and smiled his bright, crooked-toothed smile.
    â€œHow are you today, Ruby?”
    To my horror my throat swelled up and my eyes got hot. I glowered down at my pad and said, “What can I get for you?”
    â€œWell, let’s see. What soups do you have?”
    I struggled to remember. Soup. Soup. I opened my mouth and a horrible choked voice came out. “There’s beef vegetable… and tomato cheddar… and French onion…” My voice ran out on me and my nose began to run.
    â€œRuby, is everything all right?”
    â€œAn’, an’… beef onion, an’… French tomato…” Everything went blurry. Tears were spilling out; Brendan waved a paper napkin at me and I snatched it, pressing it to my eyes.
    â€œIt’s okay, I’ll have the… whatever you said first,” he said.
    Sobs broke from my body.
    â€œSit down, sit down!” He waved me into the seat opposite him.
    I kept crying and Brendan kept feeding me napkins. I knew there were tables I should be looking after, and I was probably losing more dine-and-dashes, and Jim was probably writing up my pink slip right now. I didn’t care. I was having what my grandmother called “a good cry.” Have a good cry, then. I’ll make you a nice cuppa tea. Not that she ever cried – it was something other women did, and she put up with the weakness of their flesh while they did it. There could be a nuclear explosion and while we waited for our eyeballs to boil in their sockets and our flesh to peel off in strips, while we had a good cry, Gramma would’ve made us a nice cuppa tea.
    I hardly remembered leaving the restaurant, couldn’t recall saying goodbye to Brendan. I found myself walking along Bloor Street in my blue polyester uniform and my deadly red shoes, face stinging and swollen. I was headed home, I guess. It was a long walk; after nearly an hour I turned wearily into my street.
    I got to my front steps and glanced guiltily at my motorcycle, still languishing out front. Poor girl, she’d had a bad day too, I was sure, abandoned like that… abandoned… My keys. Shit! I still didn’t have my keys.
    And then I remembered Earl and his self-appointed mission. I took the front steps two at a time, wrenched open the door that led to the uppermost apartments of the long, narrow house, and charged up the inside stairs to the landing, halting in front of Earl’s door. And stood there. Why wasn’t he popping out in his usual annoying, pathetic way, having waited all day for me to come home? Especially today, when he’d have a reason : he could save me, emerge from his hole brandishing a key. I pounded on his door.
    â€œEarl? It’s me!” No answer. I pounded again, and rattled his doorknob. I barely heard the skittering claws on the linoleum. Something furry struck at me from behind and I flung it away with my arm, a grey whirl. We both yelled. It’s not true that cats always land on their feet; they just like you to think they do. Earl’s scabby pet landed in a heap on the floor, glaring and singing in her throat. Swallowing, keeping my eyes locked with hers, I backed down the stairs. “There, kitty; nice kitty.” God, that cat hated me. In fact, all animals hated me, dogs and horses, probably budgies too. The only animal who’d ever liked me was Snow Puff, and even she had turned against me after that strange night on the Hill. I was halfway down the stairs now. The cat opened its small pink mouth, revealing perfect little predator teeth; another yowl came out. I slithered over the last three steps and slammed the door.
    I’d find Izzie myself. Sometimes she was out