Chapter 1

Juarez fans her fingertips in front of her laptop like a deck of cards to inspect for any chipped paint or imperfections.  Other than a slight smudge on the top corner of her left index finger, her nails are neatly manicured with a pale Easter yellow.  She lets out a sigh as her poised body slumps back into the antique chair that was left to her by her grandfather twelve years ago.

“This, my dear, is the world’s greatest thinking chair,” he proclaimed as she gracefully leaned over his writing desk, memorizing his beloved black and white pictures that he kept protected under glass.  Glazed wood veneers paneled his den walls like an unearthed cave in the middle of suburbia, a look she never cared for.   It was too dark for Juarez, too old and constricting for her taste.  She was sixteen then and loved the light airy features of big bay windows and factory high ceilings.  “All my finest thoughts have come to me while writing in this chair.” His voice resonated, proud and humble, wise.  “And when I am gone, I want you to have it.” Her eyes traced and re traced the photographs, her lips curled into a smile, not a single sound coming from between them.  “I have to warn you, Puppet,” he continued, “for every great notion you have sitting here, there is the opposite, and your mind will be a dusty old warehouse of duality for as long as you live.  Do not be afraid of those un-great visions; they too have their contrary.”

Neither one of them knew that the thinking chair would be passed on to her that same winter, that the old man would be hit by a snow plough as he shoveled alongside it, cursing the city workers as they passed.  No one knew that the famous prize had been promised to Juarez or why for that matter.  Unlike Grandpa, she was quiet and shy.  So quiet, some would joke, that it was if she never had a thought inside her.  It wasn’t as though she needed thoughts anyway, they laughed.  What was such a pretty girl at her age going to do with brains?  The way they figured, she could stand there in silence for all of eternity and still have the world handed to her on a platter of her choosing.

Juarez reaches into her desk drawer and retrieves her correction kit; a cotton swab, a bottle of nail polish remover, and the polish.  With surgical precision she dabs the coated swab to remove the flaw, blends the yellow glob over her nail bed, blows lightly on the wet paint and places her kit back into the drawer.

Adjusting her posture on the old wooden chair, Juarez begins to type:

How to Choose the Perfect Platter

Staging one’s table is a fine art and platters are the foundation to any presentation.  Urban Paradise Magazine has put together five incredible looks your guests will simply swoon over!  All you have to do is decide which style is perfect for your special occasion.

Within two hours Juarez finishes the article.  To avoid annoying phone calls from her editor, she checks for errors or inconsistencies and make the appropriate changes ahead of time.  She does not want to be disturbed today, her work is done and she would rather be outside.  She emails the document to JenniferEditor@UrbanParadiseMagazine.com and straps her feet into a pair of worn out Nike’s. 

Afternoon sun reaches its highpoint over the skyscrapers of Toronto; its heat at the sidewalk bakes the bags of garbage as they await their destiny, reeking of yesterday’s dinner, dog shit and would-be compostables.  Juarez makes note of the smell as she jogs past, wondering if there is an article somewhere in there for her.  Something about worms and organics, reducing waste, something everyone has heard before but does nothing about.  This is the beauty of her profession.  She has written the same article fifty times with different angles, nuances, or for fun, a top ten list.  Jogging helps her shed new light on old topics, today is no different.

Heading north from College Avenue, Juarez notices how much Palmerston looks as though it were a film set for Desperate Housewives.  Large oak and cherry trees line the sidewalks offering perfect shade to a girl with a running habit.  Little Italy, they call it, one of many cozy boroughs surrounding the downtown core.  

Maybe she had it planned in her mind, perhaps there is no such thing as a plan, but on this hot August afternoon and without a second thought, Juarez turns on her heels, looking for an address she has seen only once and in the dark of night, a year and a half earlier.   

There it is; 122 Palmerston, red brick and cream trim, three stories high as all Victorian homes in this neighbourhood are built. 

She whips herself up the wrap around porch and rings the doorbell before her mind can reason with her otherwise.  Panting, hands placed on the edges of her hip bones, fingers pressed into the firm stomach that years of dancing and running have gifted her with, Juarez counts down from twenty to give the solid wood door time to open.

Two. 

One. 

Zero.  

With a shrug, she turns to finish her jog.

“Juarez?  Is that you?”  She has heard him call out to her as she walks away before, knows his voice like a favourite song, inside and out.  She nods her head, still facing the cars that park along the curb, breathless from exertion.  “Get in here.”  He says.

With her head down, shoulders hunched and hands to her mouth she walks her five foot frame into his open arms, buries her face into the familiar scent of his chest and walks with him inside.  He hugs her from behind and together they climb the dark planks all the way up to the third story. 

His bedroom walls are painted with steel gray and trimmed with white ornate mouldings.  Every inch of space has been meticulously accounted for.  Built-in floor to ceiling cabinets flanked with French glass doors line the whole east wall.  Framed eagle feathers and a medicine wheel accent the north side just above a king size bed.  The downward sloping angles of the roof form effortlessly around a small circular table and two chairs pulled into it that peer out the window and face the treetops outside.  They are so far off the ground the rest of the avenue seems to disappear through the cloud-like leaves as though they have entered a cathedral in time.

He guides her to the edge of the bed, kissing on her salty neck.  Juarez closes her eyes.  She does not deserve to be here.  How dare she show up, unannounced, like an apparition with an agenda?   She can feel his fingers, calloused from years of mastering a roomful of instruments as they gather her turquoise tank top and scan her tiny back as it arches toward him, begging for their return.   

He lifts her arms above her head, noticing how her hands barely extend higher than his six foot stature and removes the garment, exposing fine blond hairs that will soon enough be catching more sweet and sacred sweat.  He would play her like a mandolin; play a symphony on her olive skin if he knew how long he had with her.  But he knows there are no guarantees with Juarez so he folds her over the unmade bed and undresses her while there is still time.   

No words exchanged, no pleas for justification, nothing more than the cool sheets against her skin, her skin against his.  He does not ask for permission, her presence is all he requires to proceed.  They have agreed to this arrangement since they were fifteen years old, this is how they love each other.  This is the only way she will let him love her and he takes what he can get, no questions asked.

Afterward, they lay in his bed, draped in silence, making soft strokes on the skin of one another as though they were painting landscapes in oil; following curves of skin, angles of shadow and light.  The trees outside sway as they dip their branches in pockets of wind, rustling in quiet excitement; any breeze is a good breeze in the eighth month of the year. 

Juarez looks up at his thick mess of dark chestnut hair and wonders if he will ever lose it, if he will eventually join the club of receding hairlines and how he would fare in the world without his crowning glory.  She seems to be forever looking up at him.  He catches her hazel eyes as they absorb his and for an instant they lock into the sentiment of their history.  A tear escapes her gaze and descends down a high cheek bone inherited from her deceased grandfather.   

This is her cue to leave.  

Like a gazelle moving from one watering hole to the next, Juarez dresses and swiftly descends down the three flights of stairs, out the solid wood door and on to the front porch.  She can hear him thumping his weight behind her, trying to catch up and she gives him the benefit of a few more seconds to say goodbye.  The goodbye is for his sake; who knows when she will be back.  For all they know, it could be another year and a half before they meet again.  Or three.  Or never.  In the company of a black squirrel, an oak and the orange bursts of tiger lilies, he squeezes Juarez as though it were their final embrace.  Juarez pulls back from his grip without a word, without making eye contact and sprints away.

“Bomapee.”  He calls out in Ojibwa as she runs the second half of Palmerston.  See you again.  He scratches his ear, feels where she left her breath and hopes his words carried far enough into her mind to bring her back a little sooner. 

Around the corner Juarez stretches her calf on a mailbox and feels the faint chafing of paper on her hip.  Bothered by the scratching, she reaches down to adjust the elastic on her waistband and pulls a folded hundred dollar bill into her view.  Scribbled in haste with a black sharpie pen is his handwriting.

For food, it says.  She flips the bill to the other side and reads the rest of his instructions.  Be good to yourself.

Just as the sun begins its descent behind the glass houses in the sky, Juarez returns to her bachelor apartment, both hands full of the groceries he funded plus a bottle of pinot grigio.  Writing for an online Magazine is a dream-come-true for the twenty eight year old, but it doesn’t pay the bills. 

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