You Give Good Love

by J.J. Murray

Genres: African American Romance; Holiday Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance

Synopsis

It’s been eight years since Hope Warren had her heart broken on Christmas Eve, but she still detests the holiday, and celebrations in general. Wasting her time, and her art degree, at a job she clearly hates, the only thing she’s longing for is a dream home way out of reach. So when outgoing Irishman Dylan Healy keeps getting in her face, she’s sure there’s a catch. He’s kind, charismatic—and challenging her idle creativity. It may be her least favorite time of year, but suddenly she’s willing to try everything and anything—especially Dylan himself. Dylan has enough on his plate between launching his online greeting card company at the height of the season and starting an art-themed daycare center. But he can’t resist teasing Hope out of her holiday cynicism, turning her ideas into crazy profits—or wanting more of the vibrant, sensual woman she truly is. And with the days counting down to Christmas Eve, he’s willing to put everything on the line to convince her that what they have is the gift of a lifetime…

Release date: February 12, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 449

Sample

Hope Warren was depressed because she had nothing else to be.

And her feet hurt.

Her feet were depressed, too.

“Mes pieds font mal,” she whispered in French, as appropriate a language as any for a depressed woman to speak. Hope had owned her depression since one cold, blustery Christmas Eve when her heart broke and refused to mend itself. Depression was simply an expected guest Hope never expected to leave.

Standing in front of a Xerox DocuTech high speed printer nine to six Monday through Friday and ten to five Saturdays didn’t help Hope’s pieds. Neither did the antifatigue safety mat that allegedly gave her feet some comfort. Hope looked down at the size-seven indentations on the mat, indentations she had earned from working for Thrifty Digital Printing on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, for fifty hours a week, her feet and thoughts screaming.

For eight of the last ten years.

She focused on the digital numbers, dials, and buttons and listened to Mr. Healy, a hoodie-wearing, long-haired Irishman who usually came in at 5:30 PM to get his ridiculous greeting cards printed in black and white on sixty-five-pound stock coated on both sides.

Dylan Healy, president of Odd Duck Limited Greeting Cards, usually needed his lame duck cards as soon as possible. “Have to hit the PO bright and early every Saturday morning,” he said just about every time, only “early” came out as “air-lee,” which seemed to make Dylan Healy more Irish than the Irish-American he was.

As a result, Hope rarely left at six, and Thrifty didn’t pay her any overtime, an unpleasant fact that left her PO’d at the man who had to “hit the PO bright and air-lee.”

I get the privilege of reading Mr. Healy’s cards later, Hope thought, all one hundred of the same freaking front and inside copy. If his cards were at least mildly amusing it might not be so bad, but his ideas are brutal. One of his cards read, “You had me at . . .” on the cover and “Jell-O” on the inside with a huge mound of Jell-O in a bowl. You had me at Jell-O. What? Another card had “I will always . . .” on the cover and “shove you” inside with a feminine stick figure hand pushing a long-haired stick figure man over a ledge. Brutal! He wastes his money using heavy stock paper and coating. He could get by with lighter stock and no coating at all.

At least he has the name of his company right. Odd Duck. Check out his beak! Are those bleach spots on his jeans? No. Those are multicolored paint splotches. Long black hair over his ears, dark-brown eyes, rounded shoulders, a little over 180 centimeters—excuse me, a little over six feet tall—and definitely overly outgoing in a typical Irish-American, smiling, in-your-face way. Because we only have three major clients, however, Mr. Healy is paying a good chunk of my paycheck, so I have to tolerate him, his cards, and his accent.

“And how much does it cost to fold them again?” Mr. Healy asked.

The same cost per card as it was yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, Hope thought. The man is only here to flirt with Kiki Clarke, who I have secretly nicknamed “Rafiki.” I like Jamaicans and all “Island” people, but she is too Jamaican, if that’s possible. She’s too colorful! All the time! She sighs audibly as if her job is so freaking hard. All she has to do is stand there, greet customers, and smile. Instead she giggles, looks cute in her multicolored scarves, tops, and bandeaux that hold back a mountain of braided hair, and struts around in her tight jeans, singing and dancing to music only she can hear, and ringing up sales while bobbing her head back and forth like an old school Rastafarian. She jiggles through her shifts with too many teeth, too-wide eyes, too-long dangling earrings, and too many jingling bangles, baubles, and bracelets. The vooman may be curvier than a mountain road, but a speck of dust may be smarter than she is. Kiki hasn’t been here long, so maybe there’s more to her than meets the eye—but all she does is meet the eye!

Every time I look up from this machine, it seems there’s an entirely new staff here, and once again, my latest manager, Justin Tuggle, has left early to pick up “an important order” that I’ll never run through a machine. Justin is almost a circle sprouting stick legs in his purple belly shirt, unkempt dusty-brown hair flying over bushy blond eyebrows, a boy’s face quivering on a man’s middle-aged, round body, a thin voice quavering over lips lost in the flab somewhere under his nose.

Hope looked down through her thick glasses at her old Kenetrek hiking boots. These boots have outlasted six managers.

Bad managers.

Good boots.

Hope tuned out Mr. Healy and worked herself into a deeper, darker level of depression. She had every right to be depressed, and not only because of her stationary, monotonous, mind-numbing job as background dancer for a singing Jamaican ragga.

American television, movies, magazines, her old-fashioned Bahamian parents, her Trini grandparents, and her older sister, Faith, had told Hope that she would never be beautiful. Long, brown, Medusa-like dreadlocks framed a dark-black face highlighted by a small, flat nose, somewhat smooth skin, severe cheekbones that held up her glasses, dark-brown eyes a little too wide-set and huge behind those glasses, plump brown lips pinched perpetually into a straight line, and a long tight jaw and chin. The perfect teeth behind her lips rarely emerged unless she was eating, and she worried that years of grinding her back teeth at Thrifty would cause permanent damage to her jawbone. She considered herself linear instead of flat as a board, though her sister had once told her, “Hope, you are so flat, a man will get splinters giving you a hug.” Aside from a nice set of abs, a flat stomach, and long legs, Hope Warren had none of the curves she was supposed to have as an African-Bahamian-Canadian woman transplanted to Brooklyn, and she wore a plain blue work smock over baggy jeans to hide her flatness and her hardness, her heavy locks bunched with a simple white hemp string.

I will never be an American booty queen, Hope thought. My derriere is not completely flat. It has some roundness, but I am not nor ever will be a Rastafarian.

Hope’s faculty advisor at the University of Alberta in Edmonton had told her she would never be hired anywhere in the world with only a BFA (Bachelor of Fine Arts) and a minor in French. “Get your master’s in art and design, learn to speak French fluently, and doors will open anywhere you go in the art world.”

So she did.

No doors opened in Edmonton, Calgary, or Vancouver. Toronto and Montreal were wasted trips.

Against the wishes of her parents, themselves emigrants from the Bahamas whose parents had emigrated to the Bahamas from Trinidad, Hope left Canada, escaping to New York, the supposed arts capital of the States, and she still couldn’t find work in her field no matter how much French she spewed. She didn’t want to be the assistant to the assistant curator at a minor museum, and she was too truthful to work for very long in any of the hundreds of galleries in and around New York City. “Those paintings and sculptures are brutal” or “Ces peintures et sculptures sont brutaux,” she would have to say eventually, and she would be out of a job. All she did artistically now was doodle on the backs of rejected and wrinkled copies and occasionally try to make sense of the modern art at the Brooklyn Museum.

Most of the art there looked brutaux to her, too.

Her Brooklyn-born almost-fiancé, Odell Wilson, had told her eight years ago that she would never marry, and so far he had been right. “Who would marry your plain, hard, underemployed ass anyway?” he had said in parting. “You only needed me for a green card anyway.”

Odell wanted me for more than my ability to speak French, didn’t he? Hope thought. And I only wanted Odell because . . . Hmm. It wasn’t the sex. It wasn’t that good. I had much more fun after he left.

When Odell had said good-bye that fateful Christmas Eve, Hope hadn’t reminded him that he had once hinted at getting married and having children, that he had craved her “long, hard, muscular body,” and that he loved the feel of her “solid muscles and sharp bones.” She didn’t remind him that he thought she was an exotic “foreigner” since she was from the rolling prairies of Canada by way of the Bahamas and Trinidad and spoke sexy French.

Instead of running back to Alberta’s turquoise lakes and prairies blazing with yellows and purples, I went through the five-year hassle of becoming a naturalized U.S. citizen. Instead of returning to a province that has half the population and over five hundred times the area of New York City, I became a citizen of Brooklyn. Instead of dodging bison, moose, bull elk, mule deer, and bighorn sheep, I dodge pedestrians, taxis, motorcycles, street vendors, and buses. Now that I’m only a plain, ordinary black American woman, no man will look twice at me, even if I drop in a French phrase every now and then, tell him that I’m originally a West Indian Island girl, and shake my dreadlocks at him. A real man, American or otherwise, should know what to do with all this hair.

Hope sighed and looked up, her bunched locks swaying across her back. Kiki gives Mr. Healy the same information every day. Is Mr. Healy brain-dead or what? Kiki and Mr. Healy would make the perfect couple. They could even make a tape of their daily conversations and play the tapes instead of talking to each other for the rest of their lives. Just press play.

“As you know, Mr. Healy,” Kiki was saying, “it takes time to fold your cards using our Baum—”

“Your what?” Mr. Healy interrupted with a smile. “Your bomb?”

Get me out of here! Hope moaned in her mind. This conversation never changes! Four straight weeks of “Your bomb?” I’m about to go inhale some toner! I may paper-cut myself to death! If this machine had moving parts I could easily access, I’d stick in a dreadlock and let the machine suck me through!

“Our Baum Eighteen Twenty-Two, Mr. Healy,” Kiki said. “It is a right angle folder, and we guarantee—”

“Does it also do left angles?” Mr. Healy interrupted.

I’m sure Mr. Healy has scribbled this idea down for his next brutal card, Hope thought. He’ll probably misspell it on purpose in an attempt to provide depth to his greetings. On the cover it will say, “I’m looking for the right angel,” and inside it will say, “But I’ll settle for the left.” Or “the leftover angel.” Or “the fallen angel.” Something brutally obvious like that. Some irony is just too foolish to point out, you know.

Hope rarely ended her sentences with “Eh?” like a normal Canadian. Instead, she substituted “you know” to make herself feel more like an American.

Hope ground her teeth, reached into her pocket, and felt a thin five-dollar bill and some change, and she became even more depressed.

Hope’s checkbook and bank account told her she would never own a car, a big home, a designer wardrobe, or even a kitchen appliance from this millennium. Her retirement account, however, was off-limits, no matter how bad life got. One day Hope planned to retire to her own beach house somewhere, and so far, she had pinched and saved $48,000.

In another, oh, thirty years, I’ll be able to afford the down payment for a tiny beach house looking out on the ocean somewhere. I’ll be sixty, and I probably won’t be able to walk over or even see the dunes or the shoreline clearly, but I’ll finally have that blessed piece of peace and quiet.

Hope’s smoking electric stove told her she’d never be able to cook as well as her sister did. Her sister, Faith, was an only child until Hope came along, and Faith played that role to the vicious hilt, even if her soufflés sometimes resembled diarrhea.

“You will never take my place as the queen of this family, Hope,” Faith had told her. “I own Mudda and Fadda. They never wanted you. You only got the leftover specks of their DNA. You are a loose collection of ugly. You will always be the switched-at-birth mistake child.”

Hope wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that she had been switched at birth. Faith had curves in all the right places, curves that had the Canadian boys and now her husband, Winston Holt, the “guru of natural gas” at TransCanada Corporation, eating out of her glands. Faith and “Winny” lived in a penthouse in the prestigious Carlisle condominium tower in downtown Edmonton, spent a mint on Carrara marble floors and washroom tile, spent a bank vault on Tuscan and French window treatments, and posed for pictures wherever they went.

Posers, Hope thought. That’s all they are. At least they don’t have to worry how they’ll pay their rent this month or any month of any year for that matter.

She checked the clock. Another hour of this monotony, and I’m still alive. Why? I’d kill for a good American drive-by right now. She closed her eyes. No one does drive-bys on copy shops, not even in the movies. No one even tries to rob this place.

Hope opened her eyes and squinted at Mr. Healy flirting with Kiki. She is gay, Mr. Healy. Can’t you tell? Didn’t her “Another Friend of ELLEN’S” button give you a clue? Can’t you see the “I was gay before it got trendy” bumper sticker on her rainbow-colored backpack? Don’t waste your breath. You should see Kiki’s Hungarian lumberjack girlfriend, Angie, who could probably cut down a spruce tree one-handed with a nail file.

“So I can pick these up tomorrow?” Mr. Healy asked.

Kiki shot a glance at Hope. “I am sure our production staff will once again make your order their top priority, Mr. Healy.”

I am the production staff, Hope thought. You shouldn’t try to glorify me, you know. I doubt you even know that I have an MFA. Call me the copy girl. I know you’re thinking it. You’re the funny cashier girl, Mr. Yarmouth is the invisible owner, Justin is the non-managing manager, and I’m the hardworking copy girl. Know your place in the Thrifty Digital Printing pecking order.

“Hope, do you have time to run these tonight?” Kiki asked.

Hope nodded. Sure. I have plenty of time. I have no life, no boyfriend, no lumberjack girlfriend, and no hope, apparently, of a drive-by shooting at this copy shop this evening. I already have to lock up and turn out the lights again. What’s an extra half hour of unpaid monotony anyway?

“Great,” Mr. Healy said, smiling at Hope. “Half up front, right?”

“Right, Mr. Healy,” Kiki said, taking his money.

He usually pays in cash, Hope thought. Whom is he trying to impress on Flatbush Avenue? He probably can’t afford a bank account, and from the looks of his greeting cards, maybe he isn’t smart enough to fill out the bank account application.

“Um, Kiki,” Mr. Healy said, “you wouldn’t want to maybe get something to eat when you get off, would you? I’ve always wanted to go to The Islands over on Washington Avenue, and—”

“I have a date,” Kiki interrupted.

With an eight-foot-tall Hungarian woman named Angyalka, which means, ironically, “little angel,” Hope thought. Where’s the symmetry in that? Five-foot-nothing Jamaican Kiki and Angie, whom Kiki calls “On-Gee,” the Sasquatch goulash woman. Ellen’s friends are getting taller and wider. At least Kiki and “On-Gee” have something, though I’m not sure what, especially since Kiki never says “I have a girlfriend” to stop Mr. Healy’s advances.

I used to be someone’s girlfriend, Hope thought. I had short hair and an appetite then. Why did I ever put up with Odell saying I was the whitest black woman on earth? I’m not. Just because I don’t use American slang and I carry myself with dignity at all times does not make me white. My Trinidadian-Bahamian-Canadian family raised me this way. Hope sighed again. I shouldn’t miss him still, but I do. I wasn’t in love with him, and he broke my heart. Maybe I miss the idea of having a boyfriend.

“Oh,” Mr. Healy was saying. “Well, um, Kiki, anytime you’re free, we can . . . um, go somewhere to eat, okay?”

You can’t, Hope thought. You’re not tall enough or feminine enough, and you don’t have the right plumbing. I shouldn’t be thinking about plumbing. My plumbing hasn’t been flowing since the Winter Olympics. It was during the luge. Hope rolled her eyes. Odell lasted about as long as that event, too. They need to make that luge track longer.

Kiki handed Mr. Healy his change. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Healy.”

As Mr. Healy strode out to Flatbush Avenue, a blast of cold October wind fluttered paper all around Hope as she drifted away from her machine and snatched up Mr. Healy’s latest hand-drawn card. The outside of the card read: “The best laid plans of mice and men . . .” Hope paused, took a breath, held it, and opened the card to read “aren’t really all that different, are they?” She almost smiled at a simple drawing of a stick figure man with long hair and a somewhat rodent-shaped mouse sharing a slice of cheese pizza.

Better, Hope thought. The drawings are still brutal, but... better. That Microsoft Paint program sure makes people think they have talent. I’ll bet Mr. Healy got the inspiration for this card by looking at his computer mouse. I know I can doodle better than that with my eyes closed, and all I really have to do is take off my glasses.

The clock ticked past six.

Hope ran Mr. Healy’s card through the DocuTech, then shot the copies through the Baum. She looked at the clock.

6:38 PM.

“Permettez-nous de faire la promenade à Brooklyn,” she whispered, turning out the lights and locking the door behind her. “Let’s go for a walk in Brooklyn.”

Bundled in a heavy chocolate-brown wool coat, her dreads spilling out of a dark-brown hemp toque, Hope weaved through heavy foot traffic down Flatbush Avenue, the lights of the Manhattan Bridge behind her, her stomach grumbling. A subway ride to her apartment would only take nine minutes, a bus ride slightly longer, but Hope preferred to walk because a walk gave her stomach aromas to hate her for.

She skirted other pedestrians past Yummy Taco, Taro Sushi, and the Burrito Bar.

No gas-inducing food tonight. I should have gone up to Court Street to Tim Hortons for some Timbits or cheese croissants. No. Too much fromage gives me gas, too.

Hope passed Prospect Perk Café, Tom’s, Café Shane, Natural Blend, Coffee Bites, Teddy’s, and The Islands.

No Drano or jerk chicken tonight.

Her stomach pouted because it missed double-doubles (coffee with two creams and two sugars), oxtail soup, curry goat, and jerk chicken.

She entered her apartment building on Washington Avenue in Prospect Heights. Once inside her “amazing newly renovated charming two-room studio near the Brooklyn Museum with bright natural sunlight for only $1,400 a month,” Hope turned on her only overhead light and looked up at the high ceiling. Her rental agent had pointed at those ceilings and said, “Don’t they have lots of character?” Hope often wondered how many characters had hanged themselves from the main beam among the cross-thatch of beams in that high ceiling.

I’m thinking . . . twenty-seven. Are those scratch marks? Someone had second thoughts? Here?

She sighed and looked out the only window not smudged with grime, a lonely one-foot-square window squeezed between two much larger windows. God, how I miss birch and aspen trees and wild roses. I miss the River Valley, where the North Saskatchewan River divides Edmonton with a vein of pure green forest, the sky endlessly blue, golden fields rolling like the ocean in all directions. All I see outside this soiled window are cars, buses, taxis, graffiti, and the shadowed apartment building on the other side of Washington Avenue.

Hardwood floors, harder water, and stained steel appliances greeted Hope in a kitchen where she only saw “bright natural sunlight” on Sundays, when she wasn’t working. Her granite countertops looked and felt like old asphalt. Cabinets occasionally shut and stayed shut. The Formica table and chairs leaned mostly to the left, and her washroom fixtures only wept or dripped on days ending in Y. Warped shelving opposite the refrigerator held no pictures, knickknacks, or bric-a-brac, instead displaying nothing but a former moth or two.

She had few pieces of furniture. A red quilt tried to hide a secondhand gray futon that slumped under her windows, and a lamp-less thrift store lamp table hulked beside it. A thirdhand coffee table held down a dark-gray braided oval rug like a wooden skiff beached on an island. A gunmetal-gray metal wardrobe concealed her meager stock of clothes, its single drawer rusted shut years ago, a wire metal shoe caddy displaying a dozen pairs of shoes and boots in the corner beside it. A coatrack collected a maudlin, earth-tone assortment of toques, scarves, and jackets, none of which quite matched one another or anything else she wore.

Hope stood dead center in her apartment under the main beam. I am so exposed here. I can see everything I own in this life by turning once in a circle.

At first, Hope didn’t think she’d need a bed, so she had bought the futon. After several sleepless nights of tossing, turning, the squeal of metal on metal, and a frisky metal bar digging into her back, Hope had sacrificed some of her beach house money for a wooden platform bed, an antique hurricane lamp, and a clock radio resting atop a matching nightstand.

She frowned at Whack, a stray mixed-breed cat that had adopted her a few years ago and refused to leave, now resting on her bed from whatever cats do for eleven hours at a time in a nearly empty apartment in Brooklyn.

One day, Hope thought, that cat will greet me at the door. What does Whack do all day? She probably tries to catch all that “bright natural sunlight,” gives up, and then leaves as much of her black, white, brown, orange, and gray hair on my bed as she can. I’ve told her hundreds of times, “The futon is all yours,” and all she does is blink. I point at the braided rug and show her my claws, but she never gets the hint.

Hope looked at her used twenty-inch television/DVD combo gathering dust. She looked at the rectangular space on the counter where her Bose Wave radio had died one morning during The Howard Stern Show. She didn’t miss the music or the noise—or Howard Stern. Aside from a Kindle, which contained hundreds of cheap electronic novels, and a decent laptop computer, there wasn’t much to see in Hope’s apartment.

She had no clutter.

And no life.

She only splurged on the platform bed, the Kindle, the laptop, and the extortionate rates for high-speed Internet and satellite TV, and she often didn’t even feel like sleeping, getting online, or reading.

Or thinking.

She glanced at her yellowing crème-white walls. These walls are so thin they may as well be transparent.

She closed her eyes and listened to the neighbors around her. “Limpie su cuarto ahora, Juan!” cried Mrs. Carranza, a refugee from Guatemala who had a hellion for a teenage son next door. “Che cosa vuoi dire, si non cucinare? Ho fame!” spat Mr. Antonelli, who lived across the hall, worked for Con Ed., drank too much, expected his wife to feed him the second he got home, and sometimes tried to open Hope’s door by mistake. “Vamos nos conservar a loja abrem-se depois amanhã,” said one Vaz twin to the other, co-owners of a struggling Brazilian bodega in Midwood, as they trudged up the stairs past Hope’s door. “Where the %&#! is the %&#!-ing remote control!” yelled Mr. Marusak in his thick Ukrainian accent in the apartment below.

Hope, who rarely added French to the mix of voices because she didn’t want to confuse her neighbors any more than they already were, sat on her bed and cradled Whack in her arms.

Whack didn’t purr.

She rubbed behind Whack’s ears.

Whack still didn’t purr.

Whack had never purred.

I have a defective cat. She has her own tongue. There’s really nothing wrong with that, but it’s strange to have a cat that is as quiet as a mouse. Hope closed her eyes. A cat as quiet as a mouse.

I am so tired that my mixed metaphors are starting to make sense.

Hope lay back, nestling her locks into a pillow. I work, I sometimes eat, I sleep, I sometimes dream, I bathe, I feed Whack—

I think I fed Whack today.

She left Whack on the bed and slipped into the kitchen, which smelled of Lysol, bleach, and Whack’s litter box. She looked at Whack’s water and food “bowls,” Tupperware containers that had melted into interesting Cubist art after repeated use and misuse in the microwave.

Whack’s bowls are as empty as my life has become. She sighed. Okay, it’s not true all the time. Just most of the time.

Hope poured some dry cat food into one container and filled the other with water.

Whacked slipped in and began to eat.

Whack still didn’t purr.

Sometimes, life is whack.

Hope rubbed Whack’s back.

Whack continued eating silently.

Sometimes life is whacker than Whack.

Life is a cat that does not purr.

“I am so wise,” she whispered. She shook her head. “No, I’m not wise. I actually thought Odell was giving me a present that night. I thought he was giving me an engagement ring.” Yeah, he gave me the boot instead, and he left me with an unfilled stocking.

Hope went to her bed, pulled back a quilt, and fell onto the mattress. She put her glasses on her nightstand and stared at the ceiling, which now looked like a blurry game of giant pickup sticks. A moment later, a fuzzy ball of fur leaped onto her stomach, rolled off, and disappeared under the quilt.

“Good night, Whack,” Hope whispered.

Then Hope floated off to sleep, her night as silent as her cat but as loud as her neighbors.

Will someone please find Mr. Marusak’s remote control!

Early the next morning, Hope hiked north on Washington Avenue, dodging pigeons and hoping her depression would leave her alone. Her depression was as persistent as a cricket Hope could hear but not see, as constant as an atomic clock, and as rude as the average maître d’.

Hope passed Divine Connection Hair Spa.

I should go inside and sit in the waiting area one day, Hope thought. I’m sure my presence would get their hopes up and make their scissor fingers twitch. My hair would hit the floor with a sound. I know I have saved thousands of dollars these last eight years by not letting anyone else touch my hair and hundreds more for doing my own nails.

She grumbled at Love Liquors & Wines.

That’s a lot of truth in advertising there. Folks around here do love their liquor and wine. I wish there was more of that kind of advertising. A cigar store could announce, “Get cancer here! Cancer on sale now! Smoke until your lips fall off!” A fast food place could advertise, “Get fat here! Hardening of the arteries on sale now! Eat until your gallbladder explodes!”

She moved west on Sterling past Beacon of Hope House and Duryea Presbyterian.

I wonder if there’s truly any hope at either place. Hmm. Churches only seem to offer hope at Christmas. I wonder why.

Hope went north on Flatbush Avenue past Bikram Yoga.

Yoga: human pretzels in search of enlightenment. Given the choice between medication and meditation, I choose reality. It’s cheaper. Yoga is only organized yawning and stretching anyway.

She shook her head as she passed Victoria’s Secret.

Why is there a Victoria’s Secret store on Flatbush Avenue? Real women walk to work here every day and night. Those aren’t real women in those windows. Those brainless models would freeze to death in Edmonton on a normal winter’s day, when the temperature barely rises above -17°C (1°F) all day. Those so-called “angels” are already wearing Santa hats. It’s freaking October! Buy these wisps of fabric, ladies, and keep Christmas and your man coming all year long. Wear these little nothings so you can keep jingling his bells throughout the holidays. Waste your money on these spandex Band-Aids so that we can have a merry profitable Christmas.

They look like ho, ho, hos.

Hope marched past the U.S. Army Recruiting Station.

Where they failed me because they don’t allow blind soldiers to join. Hope blew out a steamy breath. So they said. I’ll bet it was because I was once Canadian. Americans don’t trust foreigners, especially if they speak the same language. I told them I spoke fluent French, and the recruiter said, “They don’t speak French in Afghanistan, and it’s highly unlikely that the French will ever be a threat to the United States.”

Hope shuddered. That was the last thing I will ever do on a whim. What was I thinking? Odell dumped me, I stopped taking care of my hair, and I nearly joined the U.S. Army. I actually walked in and filled out all the forms. I could have been in Afghanistan, speaking two languages the Afghans don’t understand while straining to see what I was shooting at.

She stood in front of Thrifty Digital Printing, two doors down from Siri Pharmacy and the 99¢ and Up Store. For another penny, it could have been a dollar store. Why does ninety-nine cents seem larger than a dollar?

As she reached for the front door handle precisely at nine, Justin opened the door.

My lovely boss, Hope thought. Misery loves company. Hmm. If misery loves company, why are so many people alone?

“Right on time as usual,” Justin said, sighing a rank breath past Hope’s ducking head. “You’re always on time, aren’t you?”

Why does Justin make it seem as