“Sable”

Her name is Michelle. She looks younger than forty, although that’s what she is. Despite the chill on her face, her full length coat is heavy and oppressively warm, black fur being a bit much for November. She dares not take it off, though; it's the only thing covering the bruises on her arms, and the worrying marks on her dress.

She gets the notion that maybe people are staring at her a little, but she doesn’t care. This is Sainte Catherine, one of the busiest streets in Montréal; she will pass these people by and moments later their attention will be captured by some other sight or apparition.

She doesn’t rub her eyes, barely noticing that they are red raw from crying and the cold afternoon wind is blowing straight into them. She just walks and walks, unsure of where she is going, but certain that she can’t stop. There isn’t enough distance between Michelle and what lies behind her.

She narrowly avoids a collision with a dark-skinned woman and her two children, each wearing a matching Habs cap. She was wrong to come this way; it’s the weekend, and now she is essentially trapped in the crowd that’s been attracted by the passing parade. How can these people be thinking about Christmas, she wonders, how can they be thinking about anything? Isn’t this din drowning out everything that comes into their heads?

Two teenagers who only have eyes for each other bump into Michelle as they walk past, and it sends pain shooting through her shoulder. She hadn’t even realized she’d been hurt there, but then again she isn’t exactly surprised. She doubts she will ever be surprised again.

She has to get off the street, she realizes. She is barely walking anymore, just letting herself get carried along by the tide of people. There’s too much noise, everything is moving too fast, and if she doesn’t find somewhere to sit soon she thinks she might pass out. She refuses to be the woman who crumples to the ground on Rue Sainte Catherine; it’s a sight she’s seen a handful of times, and on each occasion she swore: never me.

She eventually spots a métro sign and it is like a beacon in this unholy crowd. She hurries toward it, muttering “je m’excuse” every few seconds as she forces her way through the crowd. She passes two men and strides through their cigarette smoke into the station.

The warm air hits her instantly, and the fur coat seems to get even heavier. Scanning the foyer, she sees a newspaper stand that sells cold drinks. She rushes over, drops a few coins on the counter and grabs a bottle of lemon iced tea. She has drunk half of it in large, loud gulps before she realizes that she would have preferred peach.

Finishing the bottle, she tosses it into a trashcan and wipes her hands on her coat. This morning the fur had felt soft and luxurious against her dry hands – now it becomes matted under her clammy skin, moistened by sweat and sticky condensation from the tea. Grimacing at this unpleasant sensation and the growing ache under her fur, Michelle finds a ladies room in the station and goes in to freshen up.

The sight of her own face in the mirror is almost enough to start her crying again. Her hair is lank and unkempt, her lips dry, her eyes dark and sunken in a white mask. Michelle watches, in the mirror, a young woman walk into the washroom and stand next to her, studying her own reflection. Large gold hoop earrings twinkle like Christmas decorations in the artificial light, and her tight clothes remind Michelle of herself in the past... although this young woman has a hardness in her face, in her eyes, that makes Michelle slightly uneasy. She wouldn't look out of place amid any of the drug dealers, prostitutes or neon-haired runaways on Ste. Catherine.

“I like your coat,” she says, in a language barely recognizable as French. Michelle half nods and half smiles. She really doesn't want a conversation.

“Give it to me.” Surprised by this statement, not even a question, Michelle just looks at her, unresponsive.

“Didn't you hear me, hag? I said give it to me.”

“No.” She refuses. If some punky little bitch thinks she is going to be the worst part of Michelle's day, she has a long way to go.

“Excuse me?” Obviously, 'non' is a word that this young lady isn't used to hearing.

“I said no,” Michelle fixes her with a cold stare, “now leave me alone, tabernac.”

The girl's face changes in an instant, and before Michelle can throw up her own hands to defend herself, the girl's are entangled in her hair, pulling at it with a strength that seems impossible for such a small figure. Pain flares up in her scalp, and then the girl's nails are flying in her face. Blinded, Michelle falls back against the washroom wall, knocking her head. She begins to slide to the floor, and the girl starts to force the coat off her. Michelle resists, tensing her shoulders so that the sleeves will stay on. The girl slaps her with the back of her hand, and gives the coat one final, brutal tug – the coat comes off with an ominous tearing sound. Feeling suddenly exposed, Michelle hangs her head in shame and defeat.

The girl's ugly eyes widen at the sight of Michelle's bruised, bloodied frame.

“What the fuck happened to you?” She asks, not out of concern or pity, just the selfish curiosity of the young. Michelle doesn't say a word. The girl's anger has vanished, but contempt lingers in the air. She throws the ruined coat onto the floor, spits on it, then turns around and leaves the room.

Michelle doesn't rise from her position on the hard, cold, damp tiles. She just pulls the coat towards her and wraps it around her like a blanket, trying to ignore the rips in the lining and traces of the girl's spittle. Her eyes sting, but she doesn't think she'll cry again today. She'd screamed and wailed the whole time it had been happening, that nightmare back in the hotel, and tears had streamed silently from her eyes on Ste. Catherine.

She'd been expecting the one man, a simple enough afternoon. But when she got there... Things had gone very bad, very fast. They'd just let her walk out when they were finished, their crimes covered up by her black fur, a second skin luxury paid for in turn by her own crimes. Now the evidence is in plain sight; Michelle's skin shows the cruelty of countless men and one girl in particular, while the sable coat sits in tatters around her shoulders, barely keeping out the chill of the métro station washroom.

They’ve taken everything.

Fin.

Author’s Note: It was a chilly afternoon on Ste. Catherine when I saw this woman, her face a white mask, save for her red eyes. The shimmering fur of her coat was such a striking image that I had to get it down on paper. Whoever she is in real life, I hope her day wasn’t as bad as Michelle’s. Oh, and if you're from Quebec, you will know that “tabernac” is a very bad word.