emotion. “Are you okay? You're not crying, are you?”
She made a little wave of her hand, “No, no, absolutely not!” Quickly she dabbed her eyes and face, then looked up and saw him giving her the queerest expression. God, breaking down in front of Andrew Waits; and maybe he was thinking that she was crying for him. Her tears had not been for him but for something lost, her lost youth. It went much deeper. He then took hold of her hand, which was clutching a wet Kleenex, pressed it into his, and held it tightly for an instant before she pulled it away. The moment quickly passed. Both fell abruptly silent. Then Andrew jumped up. “I have to go. Good luck with your interview,” he mumbled. She looked up at him in wonder, but he had already turned and was rushing out the glass door slamming it so hard that the windowpanes rattled behind him. She glimpsed a blurry image of a skinny figure quickly walking away down Bloor Street without looking back. Only then did she realize that Andrew was the one boy in her small circle of friends whom she had known almost forever and whom she could be herself with. “Silly boy, of course I'll miss you,” she said out loud; but of course, he could not hear.
*****
“Which way to room 208? ”
She took an elevator, which was large and seemed intended for service rather than passengers, up to the second floor and then walked along eerily quiet corridors that gleamed and appeared to go on endlessly in either direction, following occasional signs that eventually led her to room 208. It turned out to be a large quiet office, with well stacked bookshelves, cabinets and a large fish tank where an assortment of colourful neon tetras and goldfish swam in slow motion through exotic green vegetation, which shot up in ringlets to the water's surface. Beyond a partition was a bay window that was letting in a pearly green light through sheer blinds, and next to that was a large imposing mahogany desk. Behind it a regal-looking woman with half-moon glasses sat shuffling quickly through some papers. Her movements were agitated and quick: those of a Type-A personality, Jillian decided. She looked like a busy woman, an important woman, with things to do and important people to see. Her hair was shiny yellow blonde, thin and limp, with a deep part in the middle that laid parts of her scalp bare. As her secretary ushered Jillian in, the woman's round face lifted upwards towards her, and her eyes glittered as she quickly assessed the young girl standing nervously before her. After a moment's pause, she lowered her gaze and announced in an official tone, “Well, Miss Crossland, please have a seat.”
Jillian sat quietly. In the background was the constant humming drone of the motor that ran the fish tank. She found she could not take her eyes off the way the older woman shuffled the papers on her desk and the long slender fingers with which she scribbled a few illegible words; the scratching and grinding of her pen on the paper as it crossed the t's and dotted the i's sounded like an aggressive nervous tick. The woman stopped writing, leaned back in her chair to adjust her glasses and looked keenly and searchingly at the young applicant; she then announced in a low purring voice, “I'm Ms. Bradshaw, Head of Human Resources, and you, of course, are the applicant. You are here for the position of nurse's assistant; is that correct?” There was a moment's pause. Jillian saw a glint in Ms. Bradshaw's eyes.
“Yes Ma'am,” replied Jillian primly.
Ms. Bradshaw lowered her gaze and began reviewing Jillian's resume, while Jillian glanced down at her own hands, which looked very small as they rested on her knees, motionless. Next to the chair on the floor was a black patent-leather purse. Her feet were poised side by side, toes pinched, in brand new black patent-leather shoes that she had purchased the day before at Brown's Shoes in Kingston. Slowly and cautiously she looked around the office, eyeing a