“You know, there’s a word for taking something that isn’t yours. It’s called stealing.”

BY LYNDA WILLIAMS

IMAGE BY CHESLEY DAVIS

I did it because I wanted to throw back a few glasses of merlot, and the thought of having a meal with it was a nice touch compared to the ramen noodles waiting for me at home. It was a Thursday, the first week of the month, and I was waiting on my direct deposit to buy groceries.

My brother worked at Lina’s, an Italian Bistro. They really knew their gnocchi, and they were classy, even if they were crowded. The seating was Tony’s pet peeve. Like, pull your chair in already, will you? I guess it was a nice place if you were trying to impress someone and you liked garlic bread.

I came to drop off the car keys. I needed the Neon for an interview and some errands that day, and while Tony didn’t mind taking the bus to work, he hated taking it home.

I waited for Tony near the bar, trying not to be in anyone’s way while I studied the half-litre of house red on the table nearest me and listened to my stomach growl. I had lunched on two watermelon Starburst. The white damask napkins were contorted into origami swans, and the man at the table with the wine looked equally uncomfortable. He kept checking his watch; it was a little endearing that he was wearing one. It might have been a status symbol, but I couldn’t tell a Timex from a Rolex.

“Blind date,” Tony whispered, leaning against the bar beside me. “And he’s totally getting stood up.”

I looked at his crisp pinstripe shirt, probably freshly starched and pressed from the cleaners, and tried to summon some empathy. My stomach growled again. I’m not sure it’s possible to feel empathy when you’re hungry. It’s one of those gentrified emotions reserved for people who already have their needs met.

“How long has he been waiting?”

Tony shrugged. “Twenty-five minutes. At least."

“Someone should put him out of his misery.”

“Yeah.”

I was at the table in three strides.

“Sorry I’m late.”

He looked up, relieved. His smile faded a little. “Weren’t you just at the bar?”

My face reddened as I dropped my coat over the back of the chair. “It’s so embarrassing. I was having trouble finding you.”

“Didn’t you give my name to the hostess?”

I sat down and reached for the wine. “Oh, she was no help. That waiter,” I waved at Tony, "Helped me find you.”

He turned to look at Tony, giving him a nod, and I was satisfied that he was satisfied. I rewarded myself by gulping down half the glass of wine.

The thing about losing your job is that you lose all your confidence, which is pretty sad because it’s all I had left. I didn’t even get to take a cardboard file box with my personal effects, because I was a proofreader with a touchdown space. I just left with my messenger bag, like any other day. I spent the next two days watching the Women’s Network, coiled in a pit of blankets on the couch, fortifying myself with cartons of chow mein, ginger beef, and spring rolls. When I finally showered, I realized something extra had washed down the drain. I couldn’t place what was missing until I phoned my brother to ask if I could crash on his couch, so I could sublet the apartment. He asked if I would be okay, and the thing I needed to reassure him wasn’t there. I didn’t know, and I didn’t like it. It was my job to know shit, except now, I didn’t have a job. I missed my confidence each time I wrote a cover letter and sent out my resume, and also before grocery shopping, because I was afraid to check my account balance. I winced each time I punched my PIN into the debit machine.

One day I was an adult and the next I was just a kid, afraid of her own shadow.  For the first time in my twenty-eight years, I understood why people bought self-help books: losing your confidence is a bitch. It was like I forgot which shelf I put it on. Scratch that. I knew exactly which shelf it was on, and it was just too high to reach. So, there I was, jumping, arms in the air, snatching at it, and feeling more stupid by the minute. I was doing all the things women are taught to do to cheer themselves up: buying lipstick in a bold shade you’ll never wear so you can tell yourself you’re being adventurous, soaking in a hot bath until your eczema burns so you can say you practice self-care, going to the movies alone to show you’re independent. Learning to knit, creative, until your dish cloth looks like a loin cloth because you’ve dropped so many stitches. And yoga, because people who exercise think they’re better than everyone else.

My date, as I decided to think of him, watched me from narrowed eyes as I refilled my glass. He was no hardship to look at. From chin to nose he had a Michael Fassbender thing going on: the gleaming, shark-toothed smile, equal parts attractive and predatory. A jawline sharper than the knives in my kitchen, and a well-trimmed goatee with one tiny patch where the hair didn’t grow, likely from a scar. He had green eyes and a fringe of sooty lashes that could have sold a lot of mascara for Maybelline. Clearly, I wasn’t in the habit of sitting across from men who looked like celebrities.

“How was your day?”

I thought about my interview with Fast Forward Weekly, and how I had taken my fourteen-year-old cat to the vet to be euthanized earlier in the morning. I tried not to think about what I was doing at this table.

“Still young. Too early to tell.”

He seemed to like that answer. It un-furrowed his brow.

“How was yours?”

“Pretty tame. So far.” He winked, and I was almost as worried as I was hungry and faint. I’d had a cup of coffee in the morning, and not a drop of liquid had passed my lips since. I was certain I’d cried at least six ounces of tears between the vet and the interview. The wine was hitting me hard.

“Do you know what you’re having?” I didn’t know how far I could take this, but if I could manage it, I was going all the way to dessert.

“I haven’t finished looking at the menu.”

Great. He was one of those. The kind who reads the entire menu twice before they place an order.

He was frowning again. “Did you dye your hair?”

Oh, no.

“You know most women prefer not to be asked about that.”

Nothing beats two glasses of red on an empty stomach to restore your confidence.

“Sorry, it’s just that Jimmy said you were a brunette.”

“I like to switch things up.”

“Well, it looks natural. Red suits you.”

“It’s auburn, and I’ll pass the compliment to my stylist.”

Tony delivered a bread basket and drizzled a plate with oil. He told us to enjoy, and then he turned to me and mouthed, I hope you choke.

“I need a cigarette.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“Let me guess, Jimmy said I don’t.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’m off the wagon. It only happens when I get nervous.”

I reached for the pack of Peter Jacksons (oh, the pain of small economies) in my purse and slid one out, leaving two behind. My date arched a brow.

“You must be really nervous.”

I poked my tongue into my cheek, searching for a reply. “Don’t tell,” the wine leaned in and whispered for me. I made sure to push in my chair all the way when I got up. “If the waiter comes to take our order, tell him I’ll have the gnocchi.”

As soon as I stepped into the alley, I wished I had brought my coat. The chinook that had devoured most of the snow was turning cold. March and April were the most vindictive months in Calgary.

I fumbled with my lighter. The fluid was almost drained and the gusting wind didn’t help. I watched a flattened paper Tim Hortons cup dance past me, Canadian Beauty style. Finally, I struck a light.

Tony appeared at my shoulder. “You know, there’s a word for taking something that isn’t yours. It’s called stealing.”

This was a lot coming from my brother. He was fundamentally immune to what others thought, like people who give out pencils on Halloween. I wasn’t in the mood for his sudden development of conscience.

“Was it stealing when I brought Sylvester in from the rain?”

“He didn’t belong to anyone.”

“And this guy does?”

“Just because his date abandoned him doesn’t give you license to mess with his head.”

I took a drag on my cigarette. “Maybe I’m serious.”

“Just get in there and fix it before I have to serve you again.”

I came back to the table feeling chilled and smelling like an ashtray.

“So, Jennifer, what do you do for fun?”

Fun? Wasn’t that something that happened accidentally as you hurried from one job to the next? Did people actually slow down without hearing the background noise of their worries, humming like a refrigerator? Did he mean how I relaxed? Because I couldn’t imagine doing that without a cat purring on my chest.

I took a piece of bread and dragged it through the oil. “Call me Jen.”

“Alright, Jen. What do you do for fun?”

“You mean apart from drinking, smoking, and going on blind dates?”

One corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. “Jimmy didn’t tell me you were so glamorous.”

Nothing says glamorous like a white poplin blouse from H&M and black micro-twill pants peppered with ginger cat hair. It was pathetic. Not just because I was evidently below his standards, but because this was me trying to impress a potential employer. I didn’t even brush off the cat hair, because it was all of Sylvester I had left.

“Words must have failed him.” I bit down on my piece of bread. “What do you do for fun?”

“I play baseball, and I like to fish. I go out to Kananaskis every chance I get.”

“Catch and release?” It sounded like I knew something, but really, I’d just seen the film.

“Nah. Clean and fry. Have you ever had fresh pan-fried trout?”

I took another bite of bread. “Jimmy didn’t tell you?”

“Glaring oversight. Have you?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“You’d remember.”

“Speaking of remembering, do you think they forgot our order?”

He looked at his watch. “It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“Feels longer. I must be hungry.”

His gaze wandered to the breadbasket. “Apparently.”

Wanting to change the subject I said, “Tell me about your work.”

Our food arrived at the same moment he told me he was in family law. So, he was intelligent. Ambitious. Confident. Fuck me.

He talked briefly about his practice before asking, “What’s your job like?”

I wanted to say that I’d spent four years in J-school preparing to stock shelves at the Shawnessy Walmart Supercentre because media convergence had butt-fucked me like an elephant, but not all roads lead to flourless chocolate cake.

“I have a strict policy about not talking shop after hours.”

“C’mon. I understand attorney-client privilege, but at least tell me something. Like how you got started.”

Oh, Jesus. I was supposed to have clients? I looked down at the steam rolling off my plate. “I just wanted to help people, you know?”

“Mmm. And do you enjoy it? Helping people?”

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“Do I? How’s that?”

“You seem suspicious.”

“Well, isn’t helping people a vague notion? It could have led you to be a teacher or a nurse.”

“Jimmy didn’t tell you I spent a year in nursing school?”

“Jimmy forgot a lot of things.”

“Such as?”

“That you have a cat.”

Had.

“You don’t like felines?”

“Extremely allergic.”

“I guess we’re not going back to my apartment.”

“And he forgot to mention your sense of humour.”

“Not everyone appreciates it.”

“How’s your food?”

“Hot.”

There was a lull in our conversation while I attacked the gnocchi as efficiently as possible, without completely burning my mouth. I could tell he was studying me, but I didn’t care, as long as it didn’t interfere with my chewing.

Eventually he said, “How long has it been?”

“Since?”

“Your husband passed.”

Tony almost got his wish. I reached for the wine, took three gulps, and cleared my throat. “It’s uh, fairly recent.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

That made two of us. Maybe I could make my emergency exit to the bathroom. Would he think it strange if I took my coat?

He set his napkin on the table. A blob of tomato sauce stained the white damask, reminding me of who I was.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course.” I noticed he pushed the chair in all the way.

He paused and turned back to me. “If the waiter comes by with the dessert menu, let him know I’ll have the cheesecake.”

Tony appeared a moment later. “Having fun?”

“I know. There’s a special place in hell. He’ll have the cheesecake, by the way.”

Dessert came faster than my date’s return, and I stared at it for a full five minutes before I was sure of what was happening. This was what it was like to get played. I felt like the kid at Disneyland who had just seen Mickey take his head off to light up a cigarette. Tony came back for no better reason than to ask how I was enjoying the first few bites.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What’s the damage?”

“More than you can afford.”

Damn you, Michael Lawyer Fassbender.

“I’m gonna need this table. Why don’t you wait at the bar, until that deposit of yours kicks in?”

I spent the next two hours sipping a glass of water and picking individual cat hairs off my pants. I should have known he saw through me the minute he told me he was a lawyer. Mercifully, my deposit was in by ten forty-five. I waved Tony down for the debit machine, but he came back with the car keys instead.

“Go home. I’ll get a ride.”

“What about the bill?”

“Romeo paid it.”

“You let me sit here for two hours—”

“Hey, not everyone believes in rewarding bad behaviour.”

“Wait, did he say anything?”

“Like what? Thanks for playing?”

“His name, maybe. Did he pay with a credit card? Do you have the slip?”

Tony grinned. He held the receipt over my head, just beyond my fingertips. I jumped, and this time I could reach.

Lynda Williams (she/her) is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. Her work has appeared in Grain, The Humber Literary Review, and on Reedsy, among others. Her first collection of stories is forthcoming from Guernica in 2025. You can find her on X (formerly Twitter) @CocoRubes.

Image: Gibberish (Chesley Davis, 2023)

Edited for publication by Audie Cameron, as part of the Creative Book Publishing program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation and the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts.