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On a Wednesday morning in April the sign appeared. WARNING. Then Richard was by it in his car. He thought he shouldn't but circled the block anyhow and slowed at the house. WARNING DON'T HIRE YATES CONSTRUCTION COME SEE MY DOOR in black paint on a sheet of plywood propped up in the yard. The front door of the house seemed fine. Other doors, including the problem one he supposed, weren't visible from the car. The morning was clear and mild.

At the employment centre Richard counted the muffins a coworker had brought in. He liked muffins large and bran, dribbled with strawberry or strawberry-rhubarb jam, and taken with his weekend breakfasts and snacks. The muffins in the tin were small. Carrot.

A voice said, "The Jays lost. I have no patience."

Perry flipped his tie over his shoulder and ran water into the kettle.

"Three hundred dead from the earthquake," said Richard, as the kettle boiled.

"Memo to myself: call plumber," said Perry.

He peeled a couple muffins from the paper cups and carried them along with his mug of steaming water to his cubicle. Richard had worked with Perry for seventeen years. If he ever needed to tell someone something, and one day he might, then Perry would be the someone, but Richard didn't expect nor want to be Perry's first choice in return. He wouldn't be able to dismiss what he heard and how he responded and then there would be the questions, why Richard and when again Richard and whom else but and what else did the whom else, however many, know. Some days he avoided even saying hello to Perry.

The new woman Aileen stood at the opening to her cubicle talking with another woman, a client. Twice a year the shape of the cubicles was altered, Richard's idea, the available walls limited so widening cubicles also shortened them, or lengthening also narrowed. On Aileen's proposal in October cubicles had been honeycombed and as Richard had helped her put together an example someone had let go with a buzzing noise. Honeycomb cubicles, though, caused aisles to be crooked so now Richard saw Aileen and the woman, then just cubicle walls, then the woman's eyebrow ring, then was upon them and shuffling by, his back grazing a wall. He considered the aisles manageable.

"I was only fourteen but the tips," said the woman.

Aileen didn't look at Richard.

"The one time in my life I earned better than I was worth," said the woman.

Later, the first man registered by Richard was more excited about his benefits continuing than about the upgrading program itself, tugging the dash of hair on his chin, which brought Richard to comment, "Yes, the benefits of unemployment." He waited for the man to accuse him of being haughty, something he shouldn't have had to worry about, yet by tugging it was as if the man was tallying up his cheques. During the next four registrations Richard censored himself. Then he grabbed his lunch from the fridge, his initials on the bag, and slipped away.

The sidewalk triggered acceleration. He packed food to be eaten on the move, banana, pear, raisins, celery sticks, cream-filled cookies. Bologna on whole wheat with lettuce and Dijon mustard. If asked he would admit to liking bologna. Before bologna it had been thin deli ham and thinly-sliced Havarti on a Kaiser roll, Dijon too, until his cold drew suspicion to the deli counter. He enjoyed preparing a lunch, the crisp bright smells, the knife knocking the cutting board. Bag still closed he walked, elbows tucked in. He passed the newspaper building where half-bodies skated behind a counter, there he is out for his constitutional, then the taxi office with the wildlife calendar, then opened the bag but rather than the banana pulled out a folded piece of paper. He stopped. Those were his initials on the bag.

Must talk. Can we? Aileen.

Richard got through his lunch except for the pear and dumped the bag and the shredded note in separate garbage containers on the street. Nectarines, not pears, should have been his impulse at the A&P. Hiking up to the fourth floor he continued grooming a response to the note. Regularly at the centre he nixed and clarified and held firm then was stable and proper and, always, strong when prescribing alternatives. He lingered between floors, his head bowed.

Five o'clock arrived with Richard on the telephone attempting to unravel new rules for an old grant process. He jabbed his forehead with the eraser end of the pencil. Then Aileen went past wearing her coat. Richard watched the opening of the cubicle, his chair creaking. He hadn't spoken to her after lunch. Then the person on the telephone said, "Call if you have questions" and clicked off in the middle of Richard's "Yes I do." He stayed at his desk. The centre was quiet. An hour later he finished working. His car was alone in the lot.

Talk had occurred. Richard had heard why her twin daughters, her twin dots she called them, had the names they did, one that of a great-grandfather but tinkered with to spell Harleigh. It was November and they were walking to the library to examine a room for an interview skills workshop. Richard complimented the names by repeating them out loud. That day Aileen wore the dark, pleated slacks she preferred and a work crew was cutting into the road outside the library.

"Our girl nearby?" Perry said during the same period, nudging Richard with a file folder.

Richard didn't challenge what Perry said, nor listen further. He didn't need to. Appearances, misread of course, then denials then an instant of recklessness then messy with blame outnumbering brains - he foresaw it all himself. Soon enough he acted and clipped his conversations with Aileen, kept talk homed in on work matters. Aileen seemed disappointed. But, she went along.

Thursday he spent at a meeting in Hamilton, in a room with a hum, then Friday morning he signalled over to the curb. The plywood sign remained in front of the house. A second sign was posted on a truck in the driveway, HIRE YATES CONSTRUCTION = YOUR SORRY ASK ME and a telephone number. Richard sat, engine running. He got the centre a scant five minutes early, slowing only as he crossed the top stair, briefcase and bag lunch settling at his side, then told Perry he had gone back home for his centre keys, which he actually had forgotten one morning in November so the tale was his to borrow. He patted his watch.

Perry said, "One hundred and sixty million. One, six, zero." He rinsed out his mug.

Richard placed his lunch behind a can of coffee in the fridge. His heart continued to beat quickly.

Aileen entered and took a tea bag from the cupboard. She wore the fuzzy wool cardigan she kept handy to ward off chills, and her hair was cut shorter, off her neck. "Gentlemen," she said.

"At first glance it's lewd," said Perry.

"Ludicrous," Richard said back, surprised at being cautioned again. He was all but ignoring her.

Aileen smiled and opened the fridge.

"I must sneeze," said Richard, stepping away.

Aileen took a container of milk from the fridge and Richard waved his arm to indicate that the sneeze, it wouldn't. Perry let Aileen pour from the kettle first.

"A gentleman," she said. She put the milk on the same shelf as Richard's lunch and made off with her tea, Richard hearing her say, "What's the problem?" once she was out of sight. There was a brashness to her tone.

Perry sampled his water then stirred it. "But another glance confirms that he's a rare miracle in the flesh, so as a true fan I hate him for being worth the money. Every, single, cent," he said.

Richard opened the fridge and took his lunch to his cubicle. By Saturday evening his neighbours across the street hadn't collected their recycling box from the curb and it had been emptied Wednesday. Wednesday morning, he figured. Sunday, Richard washed floors then ironed dress shirts, the room neat with the smell of spray starch and hot iron, then in his old jacket went outside to spring clean the window wells. As he turned on his knees to drop another clump of leaves and twigs into the garbage bag a car pulled in the driveway. He held onto the clump. Inside the car Aileen scratched her nose. She opened her door. She reached back, shut off the engine.

Richard got up rubbing his hands on his jacket. He had done the floors and was into window wells but still had to reorganize the hall closet and choose new wallpaper for the kitchen. Then shower. He wished he hadn't rubbed his hands on his jacket.

"I don't sleep in on weekends," he said.

Aileen placed herself between Richard and the back door of the house, the one door unlocked. A turquoise dress hem showed at the bottom on her belted coat.

"Hello," said Richard.

Aileen said, "We capped our windows to save us the same trouble. With the hill gravity's against us but it's a bus route, first to be plowed, and that's been to our advantage this year though it's since thawed. I like snow. The Yukon. I have a fascinating image of deep and complete winter, I'm nostalgic for a place I've never been. If nostalgic is the right word, and whether it is or not it could be."

She spoke unhurriedly. Richard acknowledged the flow. Pleasant, interesting. It was a flow to be conscious of. It was a technique.

He picked up a leaf which had missed the bag. From another yard came a hollow thumping. The block had grown noisier in the last year.

"A childless couple owned the house prior to me. Chatham they moved to," he said.

"I was on my way elsewhere," said Aileen.

"They specifically said they'd return for the chair in the basement, so all this time it hasn't been touched. Another six months, that's it."

A wind had come up. Richard made himself smaller so there was more jacket to cover him. He remembered buying the jacket and the receipt waiting on the dresser, yet the jacket was ideal now for outside work.

"We don't live extravagantly," said Aileen.

"The children with you?" Their peculiar names dodged away from him.

"I admit we occasionally soften and lose our minds and stray from our budget, but I'm entering whine country so I'll simply give you this."

Aileen took a business card from her pocket. Richard wiped his hand on his jacket and accepted it.

"I'm not wearing gloves," he said.

"As we say at the office, 'No one will know unless you tell them.' That's fine, solid advice."

Richard made a sound to demonstrate he was reading the card. But her nugget of advice rattled about him, advice he wouldn't have labelled as common or even as advice, as she had boasted, her eleven months at the centre up against his stack of years.

Mister Job the card read. Renovations & Repairs Home & Property All Size Jobs Welcome Her husband's name.

"Soon I'll be missed," said Aileen.

Richard said, "We haven't talked for a while." Her notion of advice was faulty but a dress suited her, suited the purpose of the centre. Richard discovered a pet name: Eh-Lean.

She said, "If you need work done here, well. An estimate isn't an obligation. This wasn't a topic for the office."

"Small jobs aren't small when one thinks about it," Richard said, cheerfully.

"That's correct, I don't think about it. But ..." Aileen tightened the belt on her coat and her eyes perked up. "I had no idea you would miss talking," she said, and walked away.

"Terrific," Richard smiled, as her car started with a roar. Tuesday's spicy chicken sandwich tasted better than Monday's had. Richard chewed in detail, anticipating then savouring the nip of the meat and its peppy dialogue with the Dijon and as he chewed and the taste flourished he faded from his walk, the day around him yellow and wide. The question of how a grocery store could be out of bologna became unimportant. Spicy today, spicy next month. At forty-five he couldn't say for sure what bologna was. A bologna had never walked. Vaguely he was aware that a chicken didn't taste spicy on its own, that technology was involved. He chewed more sandwich. For Wednesday, a little sharp cheddar would join the fun.

Then as he neared the laundromat that evening the right sort of car driven in the right sort of way, not shyly, and with the right shape of person at the wheel drove off in the opposite direction. Extravagant or not, however, she owned a washing machine. That day in November at the library they finished arrangements for the room and her face caught the sun as they came outside and from behind dazzling sunglasses she said, It's either a new machine or a new machine. Likely, Richard mentioned his visits to the laundromat. No more repairs, she said that day in November.

The direction she drove now allowed her the best route home. He didn't get the license plate.

"Busy night?" said Richard.

The woman who operated the laundromat was holding scissors and plant shoots and staring up at the television, where contestants in helmets stalked a gigantic, grinning marionette. The commentary skittered in Italian.

"This is good," she said.

Richard sat by the window while his laundry washed and dried, a magazine in his lap. Monday had presented a retreat into slacks but today she had rebounded with a kilt and a smart white blouse and, in a shrewd move, they hadn't talked since Sunday. Usually, he thought, he did arrive at the laundromat earlier.

Floodlights blazed. From Richard's car it seemed as if the man stopped on the sidewalk had been impaled, while on the near side of him an Ed was praised. Or the man himself was Ed, Ed Yates, and receiving his due. Then the man adjusted his cap and continued down the street, away from the new sign, and the large drawing of a screw met the ED! Back home Richard stripped the paper from the kitchen walls and repaired cracks with Polyfilla, thumbing it smooth, then enjoyed several jam and muffins. He wore clean pajamas to bed. After a short sleep he ate toast over the kitchen sink then brought the chair up from the basement and made a spot for it next to a lamp. He was ready.

He detoured to use the bank machine at the A&P. The store clock agreed with his watch. He bought a package of hot cross buns and the cashier winced and said, "First fifteen minutes of my shift I'm off on the farm" but didn't shortchange him.

Downtown he followed Perry into the parking lot.

"I must get a new atlas. Many places aren't where they should be," said Perry, resting against his car.

Richard squeezed his briefcase to his chest. "I've forgotten my lunch."

"Here's item two," said Perry.

They crossed the road without speaking, Richard realizing he hadn't checked for her car in the lot. As with the forgotten lunch, he relaxed after tensing. A light rain fell.

Perry went on. "Was it Friday? The Monday before? The first day of the week, the last, to me flip sides of the same coin -" Perry bent and picked something up from the sidewalk. "This, I dare say, is beyond coincidence."

Beaming, he held out a dime. He laughed and Richard joined in. Laughter surrounded them. Then Richard understood what Perry meant and appreciated it by not laughing. April became his favourite month.

"Ed!" said Perry, suddenly.

A man on a recumbent bicycle sailed along the road as if riding a piece of wheeled furniture, his hair and beard aflutter. Richard didn't recognize him.

"The Good Lord knows your name," said the man, and blew a kiss.

"You daffy son of a bitch," said Perry. Then he said to Richard. "Here's item two. Take a gander."

A Mister Job business card had replaced the dime in Perry's hand. Richard's scalp tingled.

Perry said, "Given to me as I was returning from the loo, my world temporarily at peace. His idea or hers, this inner-office marketing? Hers, our girl's wired that way. But card in hand I'll admit to many and mixed feelings."

They were stopped on the steps to the centre, the railing between them. Richard set down his briefcase. He looked but couldn't find the man on the bicycle.

"You weren't on her list? That's astounding," and Perry whistled. "Shame about your lunch but we'll get ourselves a blue plate. See how the weather progresses, if a lunch is a wise move," he said.

Richard held onto the cool railing for support. A bit of dried Polyfilla was stuck to his thumbnail. He tried to whistle back at Perry. When nothing came he said, "I'm not surprised." The news arrived.

"Aileen's called in sick."

Richard sharpened a pencil at his desk.

"Whatever it takes, I told her," said the woman delivering the news.

Richard said, "A friend of mine accompanied his mother. Mind you, this was years ago. My friend and his mother, they went house to house collecting money to fight TB. But people misheard. TV? They were fighting TV?"

Richard bumped his leg against the inside of the desk. The anecdote was as clever, as deadly, as any he had told. It was perfect. He could have cried out. The woman dug under her glasses and scratched her nose.

By the time Richard put on his coat that evening, the cleaners had given the centre a fresh bleachy-lemon smell. He paused at Aileen's cubicle. On the chair was her cardigan sweater. But the run of the honeycomb was scheduled to end. His briefcase carried promising new resumes. If nothing else, he lived prepared.

"I love this place," he said, and left.