Kathy with a K

There’s a small shoe store on the corner of Carleton and Queen Street in downtown Fredericton. Behind the display walls are boxes stacked to the ceiling. An older woman is sitting on a bench behind the cash, brushing away at a black leather shoe.

She introduces her herself as Kathy with a K. Her hair is cut short and her bangs are spiked with gel.

Kathy says she isn’t afraid to tell anyone where to go and how to get there. She brings up her second marriage and the hell she endured.

“I’m still here. You didn’t get me you bastard,” she says as she looks at me through her gold rimmed glasses.

The smell of cigarette smoke clings under the heavy scent of leather, and when Kathy coughs and I can hear phlegm loosen in her lungs.