Free Shatterproof by Yvonne Collins, Sandy Rideout

office, I throw my things into a cardboard box. It’s wasting precious minutes, but I don’t want to come back, ever. After taping the box shut, I write TRASH on the side with a marker. Then I spray the desk with cleanser and wipe it down, trying to erase every sign of my existence.
    Finally, I grab the only two things that have meaning anymore—the silver model planes—and slip them into my pocket, alongside the Wonder Glass.
    On my way out, I stop in Backstabber’s doorway. “Goodbye and good luck,” I say.
    “What happened?” he asks, still oblivious to the damage he caused. I stare at his perfect tie, and remind myself he’s at just as much of a disadvantage as me. The only difference is his complete lack of integrity.
    “Change companies, Baxter,” I say. “You’re good at your job, and you’re losing your way from fighting against the current.”
    He looks at me as if I’m crazy, and says, “I’m not leaving.”    
    “Then pack up your wooly neckties, because Ottawa’s cold this time of year.”

 
     
     
    T he gentle swirl of snowflakes that began around noon has turned into a massive, traffic-stalling blizzard. Darkness has fallen, and aside from snow-covered hats and mittens, it’s like all the color has gone out of the world.
    I call Noah as I walk to the subway and get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me,” I say. “Remember the flowers in Fiji—the purple beach morning glories, the red hibiscus, and the yellow orchids? I just want to say that without you, my life is black and white, and shades of gray. I really hope you’ll give me another chance. Just leaving the office now, so please let me know where to find you.”
    I follow that up with a shorter, less corny text message, before trying to head down the stairs to the subway. The crowd surging back up the stairs warns me that the subway is out of order, and a long delay predicted.
    Standing on the sidewalk, I compete with the other commuters to flag down the few cabs skidding along two deep ruts in the middle of this normally busy street. After several futile attempts, I give up and start walking. It’s after 5, now, and I have to reach Noah with the Wonder Glass before it loses its power. To complicate matters, I have no idea if he’s at home, the office, or drinking away his sorrows in a bar. I just have to keep moving and hope that he’ll eventually let me know where to find him.
    I slip and fall for the first time at Bay and Wellington. It’s amazing I made it this far, because the pumps I’m wearing have no treads and the snow is over my ankles. I didn’t check the weather report this morning, and expected to have the car back by now anyway.
    Clambering to my feet, I trudge a few yards before stopping to text my brothers with icy fingers:  “Help!  Find Noah now.”
    I make it a full block before the next tumble. This time, I stay down for a couple of minutes, refusing help from passersby. Flat on my back, I stare up at snow so thick you can’t see past the second floor of the skyscrapers.
    It’s tempting to just lie here until the snow covers me. There’s no reason to get up. I’ve lost my boyfriend, my career, and my integrity. What’s the point in plodding on?
    The buzz in my purse stirs me to life. I struggle to get up, my thrashing arms creating an involuntary snow angel on the sidewalk. Finally I roll over on my side and manage to hoist myself to my feet. My shoes and legs are soaked, my tights have a hole in the knee and there’s mud tracking up my black coat from the spray of slush at the curb. I’ve lost my hat and one glove.
    I dig out my phone and see the text is from Scott: “We’re on it, Number 1.”
    Glancing around to get my bearings, I notice something surprising. Every restaurant, café and bistro is lit up and crowded. It takes me a second to remember it’s Valentine’s Day. Heavy snow hasn’t prevented couples from coming out in droves. In fact, the fun’s started early.
    I keep walking