She was seated alone at the table. A petite woman—brunette—shoulder-length hair dishevelled. Not beautiful like a front-page model, but like a flash in the dark. She had a delicacy about her that had long changed into something else.
Her muddy work boots and stained jeans were certainly a contrast. A collared jacket and construction helmet lay on the ledge of the window next to her. Her bare arms were sleeved with black and grey tattoos.
She was reading a dogeared copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra as her other hand forked a plate of curry rice into her mouth.
Miranda got a good look at her before she approached. Labourers were not unexpected sights in the financial district, where new developments were a dime a dozen. But this quiet hole-in-the-wall Japanese eatery away from the traffic of Bay Street usually drew habitual patrons in ties and skirts.
"Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken."
The woman looked up. She didn't appear disturbed. "Suit yourself."
"Good book. Nietzsche."
The woman put her book down. "It's good. Never got time to read it in university."
Now Miranda was getting the once over. They must have made quite a pair. She was in her usual uniform—if the other woman's outfit was another variety of the same idea—Miranda's a pair of black pumps, matching pantsuit, and a severely crisp white oxford. As she set her tray on the table the gold metal of her watch flashed in the sun. The woman's arm that held the book sported a more practical model on the slim wrist.
"You have more time for it now?"
"Pull wires by day, read Nietzsche by night. It's a good balance."
"So you're an electrician with a degree." Miranda was curious and she did not hide it.
If her prying irritated the woman, there was no sign of it. "Never finished. Fell off the ivory tower in my third year. Decided to apprentice—kick my own ass into gear."
"And did you?"
"Fuck yeah. And you? Should I guess?"
"You can try."
Another once over. "If I were one of the pigs I worked with I'd say administrative assistant. But I'm not. And you're too well dressed. That's a Piaget." The woman glanced at Miranda's watch. "I'm going to go with: management or lawyer. Am I getting warm?"
Miranda started, impressed. It was an understated watch, too, or so she thought. Nothing like red soles. "Yes, you are. Please continue."
The stranger across from her smirked. "Not even a hint? That's cold. Hmm." Dark eyes swept her again. Her skin prickled in its path. Nietszche lay forgotten on the table. "I'm going with lawyer. Final answer."
"And you'd be correct. But how could you possibly pick that up?"
A grin. "I didn't. I wanted to be a lawyer once. I was just being hopeful."
She gave the electrician an odd look. The woman's face darkened almost immediately. "Yeah, I know, from lawyer to electrician. I didn't fall through the cracks. My work makes me proud and I get home tired, which is more than what most of these assholes can say." The electrician was looking around them.
"I wasn't belittling you. You are clearly very self-possessed." Miranda defended herself quickly. She hadn't given the woman that kind of look—she hadn't meant to.
"Sorry," the electrician looked mildly chastened. "I thought I was over having my head stuck up society's ass. I still get defensive. I guess I had a picture of who I was but it didn't fit with how I felt."
Miranda laughed. She didn't often during daytime hours. "Well spoken. I've never heard it put quite like that. I'm Miranda." She thrust out her hand. The stranger shook it firmly with a smile that creased her eyes and endeared her face.
"Mishmash of a labourer's mouth and, well," the woman picked up the book. "It's like having two voices. I'm Jack."
"Is that a nickname or did your parents bestow you with that gem?"
That forcefully intent gaze was back. A derisive sneer did not look out of place on that face. "It's my name and if it doesn't fit your mouth, you might want to switch tables."
"Don't be ridiculous. If that's what you want to be called, I'll honour that, Jack."
Jack snorted. "How long have you been a lawyer?"
"Six years. How long have you been an electrician?"
"Got my Red Seal three years ago." Jack was picking at her food. It sat in a mushy mass in the centre of her plate. "Now I make the kids as miserable as they made me."
"You sound like you enjoy such a thing."
The electrician looked up, lips twitching. "It's right up there with my vacation pay."
"Do you yell or are you the silently disappointed type?"
"Whatever makes them cower."
"You remind me of my boss."
"Geez, you like that sorta thing?" Jack glanced at her watch, then grabbed her helmet and jacket without waiting for a response. "Sorry, gotta go. Gotta fuck up my apprentice's day. Enjoy your... whatever."
Miranda would swear, at that moment, an otherworldly force had moved her limbs. It landed on Jack's forearm. Her other hand had gone to her blazer pocket. It pulled out a business card and moved it towards Jack's torso. It placed the card in Jacks' reflexively outstretched hand.
"It was nice meeting you," Miranda said. Did her voice sound invariably husky? No, it always sounded like that when she was handing someone her business card. Like a switch. It was normal. It wasn't her fault if Jack took it the wrong way.
Jack stood by her momentarily holding the card. Then she walked away and out the door without a sound.
Jack hadn't ruined anyone's day. She pulled up an old transformer. She dug up the old run. She thought about the almost inhumanly beautiful, stick-up-her-ass lawyer. She new buried conduits. She ran them to the new transformer. She remembered Miranda's hand on her arm. She wasn't watching her dumbass apprentice with the splice kit. She shoved him aside and pulled the new wire he'd put down. As she was putting her toolbox in the back of her truck she remembered she'd forgotten to yell at him as he stood quietly aside, contrite, as she erased his fumbling. She hoped he didn't think she was going soft.
Her phone dug into her ass she settled in the driver's seat. She emptied her pockets into the cup holder as Talia climbed in with a groan.
"What?" She glanced over at her dusty friend, feeling a small twinge of compassion as Talia ran a hand through dark hair and caught it in what looked like a lump of glue.
"Remind why I'm apprenticing with that bastard."
"I learned a lot from Wren. He's a hard-ass but he'll teach you right. He's just making sure you can pull your weight." Jack backed out of the lot. Gary waved at them shyly from his VW Jetta. She glared at him through the windshield and turned onto the main road.
"I'm doing grunt work! He had me drilling on a ladder for hours. I thought my arms were falling off." Talia flapped her arms in front of her.
"Don't get your dust in my car."
"And you shouldn't be so mean to Gary. He's nice."
"Until he gets into your pants," Jack scoffed.
"He's a good guy. He even drilled for ten minutes during his break so I could rest my arms."
"There are only two women working on this site, Talia. He's not the only one drilling for you."
Talia coloured. "Shut up." She fiddled with the centre console. "When are you gotta get this fixed? How do you stand driving to work with nothing to listen to but a bunch of people honking at your ass down the 401?"
"I'm done with that clusterfuck next month. Found a place in Chinatown that doesn't have rats."
"That's close! We could brunch!"
Jack swallowed a snappy retort as Talia bounced once in her seat. "Yeah... whatever."
She had never brunched before. It sounded pretentious. She wondered if she could convince Talia to brave the Red Room instead. Apparently, it was managed by the Vietnamese mob, but the nachos were something else. She was broken out of that chain thought as a taxi swerved in front of her and honked. The pre-emptive honk—secretly impressed, she gestured crudely at the driver.
"What's this? Miranda Lawson, Lawson & Taylor LLP. Are you in trouble again?"
"No," Jack said quickly, avoiding a stray cyclist. "Put that back."
"This wasn't here yesterday," Talia continued. "So you got it today. From someone you met today. Before you left work."
"No," Jack said again. She watched the cyclist jump the curb and plow into a storefront.
"Are you smiling, Jack?"
"No! I was," Jack gestured at the cyclist, who had risen uninjured and was bent over his bike. She made a noise of disgust. "Stop talking or you're doing all my drilling tomorrow."
"I'm going to put this back in your cup holder. Y'know, next to your phone."
Jack slid the truck to a stop. "Get out of the car."
"Jack!"
An angry text lit up the screen. Jack rolled her eyes. She'd only stopped five minutes from Talia's apartment. She could never even find a place to pull over directly in front, anyway.
"Can't walk after a day of drilling?" She muttered her breath, but decided against texting back. She opened the fridge and stuck her head into the cold air. The ground chicken was not a good colour.
"Fuck. Delivery it is."
She picked up her phone. Talia had tucked the business card into the case. She pulled it out and looked at it. It looked like any other business card she'd ever seen and she still wanted to punch every smarmy prick that dared to hand one to her.
She wondered if Miranda was hungry now. She wondered if Miranda would be hungry on Saturday night. She wondered if Miranda could eat Duff's suicide wings and not run to the bathroom before the night's end.
She dialled the number.