// Toriv

I woke up late the next morning a little bit hungover. Not too much, just enough to feel it and be reminded of the stuff leading to it. It came back to me slowly, like a warm and pleasant dream: the evening at the bar, the flow of conversation and heat of everyone’s bodies, the brush of hands…then something stuck in my brain, like an old-school music record coming to a screeching halt. Something wrong, something I had missed–

The other side of the bed shuffled and tossed, then buried deeper into itself in an attempt to escape the bit of noonday sunlight coming in through the curtains. I leaned over and poked the sleeping mass and was immediately rewarded with a kick in the shin.

“Ow! Dude!”

“You’re on my side,” the ungrateful blanket pile mumbled.

I poked it again, because I am not a quitter. “This is my bed, bro. All sides are my side.”

“I thought Northern elves were supposed to be hospitable.”

“And I thought red dragons didn’t even need blankets.”

The blanket mass turned red dragon turned Red flipped the covers off of his face, probably so I could fully appreciate the force of his just-woken-up glare. In case it wasn’t already obvious, he isn’t really a morning person. Or afternoon person, as it were.

I held up my hands and said, “Okay, okay, mi casa es tu casa and all that. You sleep your life away if you want.”

He grunted and went back into the blankets. That’s what I get for my Northern elven hospitality. That charming morning greeting along with the height of the sun behind the curtains told me that it was high time for a cup of coffee, so I slipped out of bed to make some.

The spring sun was bright over the rooftops, a sight which never fails to make me sigh like a lovestruck maiden. Gone were the woes of winter, cursed season of the cooped-up motorcycles and ruined lace-up boots. March was the month of new beginnings. Hopefully. This is Montréal, after all, which means springtime snowstorms are very much a possibility even after it’s been warm and sunny for weeks, but I live in hope.

The first thing I did was feed the rats their breakfast. It should be noted that Sys and Dia were much happier to see me than the grumpy lump still camping out in my bed, but I reap the friends I sow, I guess. In any case, a little ratty love got me cheered up and ready for breakfast, so I set the coffee to perc while I sliced and toasted some bread and threw on a few condiments to sweeten the deal.

Red was still facedown under the monstrous pillow-and-blanket pile when I came back in with the breakfast platter, so I set the tray down and threw open the curtains to the glorious soon-to-be-summer sun.

I said, “Wake up and smell the coffee, my dude.”

Red said, “Mmmrngh.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and dug him out piece by piece. I always find it kind of funny how the only time Red can stand layers is when he’s sleeping. You can’t get him to wear a coat in the dead of winter but like hell you’re going to get him to leave his blanket pile until he’s good and ready.

Finally, he deigned to emerge from his cave, by which I mean he poked his head out and blew his hair out of his face. “What is that on the toast?”

“Uh, avocado?” I reached over to my half of the tray and took a bite. “And some sun-dried tomatoes and pepper. It’s so good, man, try it.”

He looked at me like my entire existence was a disappointment to him. “That is some serious hipster shit.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of all this deliciousness.”

“It’s green and mushy and not going in my mouth.”

I took another bite and chewed and swallowed before answering. “That’s a great thing to say to the guy who sucked your dick and then made you breakfast.”

Red snorted and started to roll over, presumably to go back to sleep, but then he changed his mind and sat up just enough to be able to get his coffee, which I humbly  think is a testament to the amazingness of my coffee.

When he continued to look at my avocado toast like it had kicked his dog, I said, “There’s some plain toast for you too, you big baby.”

“Thank god,” he mumbled through his coffee.

Good enough for me. I already know Red’s taste in breakfast is pretty minimalist, which is my poetic way of describing it as “boring, but I respect your life choices”.

We breakfasted in silence, sitting on my bed in our varying states of naked, sipping piping hot coffee and listening to the sounds of the city through the walls. Red’s gaze looked far away, like he wasn’t quite awake. Normally, breakfast improves his mood a lot, but after I’d cleared the dishes away and let him have his go at the bathroom, he didn’t look any less grumpy. I gave him free reign of my PS3 to see if that would cheer him up, but even a few rounds of Call of Duty weren’t enough to please sourpuss over there.

“Do you need to go back to bed?” I asked him over my phone, which was overflowing with notifications as usual. “Because you’re acting like a kindergartener who needs his nap time.”

“Hilarious,” he said flatly, before putting the controller down, straddling my thighs, and grabbing my face for a kiss.

Red is not a gentle kisser. I consider him a good friend-with-benefits of mine, but I don’t think there’s ever been a tender moment between us, which is, well, fine. You’re friends with different people for different reasons, I guess, and I don’t need sappy morning-afters from Red. His taste in foreplay is pretty minimalist too, and if I minded it all that much I wouldn’t keep inviting him over.

We fell over on the couch and stayed there for a good long while, doing that thing that guys do when they get their hands and mouths all over each other. Red’s mood finally got better after that particular activity, which I think is fair to say tends to be the case for most people. At least, for most people I know.

When I woke up from a short snooze — I’m the after-nap type — I found Red at the windowsill, smoking out the open window while typing angrily on his phone. He sighed deeply around his cigarette, sending a spark soaring out to fizzle against the cold metal steps of the fire escape.

“Chill out with the firestarting, there,” I said. “I like this apartment. Don’t want it coming down.”

“I haven’t done that in ages,” Red said super casually, overgrown delinquent that he is.

I came up and draped myself over his shoulders. He let me, but tilted his phone away like a naughty teenager.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. It’s just Ma.”

“She okay?”

“Fine.” He switched his cigarette over to the other corner of his mouth. “Just layin’ into me over stupid shit.”

“If there’s anything I can help with–“

“Nah, man. It’s just council stuff. She’s like–whatever. It’s whatever.”

I’m at least  smart enough to take a hint, so I let it be. If there’s one thing I know about clan business, it’s that you let the clans take care of it. If you believe the stories, which I do about 89 percent of the time, things get really messed up really fast when the different clans start getting up in each other’s business, like they did way back when the Great Silence happened. Not that I don’t think the legend of the Hero Vinoriev isn’t one of the greatest love stories of all time, but it has its place in historical war accounts for a reason.

“Okay,” I said lazily, enjoying the one-sided cuddle in the post-sex, post-nap afternoon haze. “Now you ask me an intrusive question.”

Red tilted his head up and exhaled two streams of smoke out his nose. When he spat the remnants of the cigarette filter out onto the fire escape, it crumbled into ash and dispersed in the cool spring breeze.

“Sure,” he said. “Where’d you really find that professor guy?”

“Mahendra? He’s just one of my customers. A sorta regular.”

He shook a fresh cigarette out of the crumpled box from his pocket and didn’t answer. I’d expected a bit of ribbing over befriending a guy so different from most of the other guys we know, but nothing like this weird, quiet suspicion of his. It was something new coming from Red and I didn’t really know how to react to it.

“What?” I asked him. “Did he offend you or something? Though I doubt it, considering he’s one of the politest people I ever met in my life.”

“Chyeah,” Red said. “He is that.”

“Then what?” I nuzzled against the nape of his neck, burying my nose in the long swoop of his hair on the not-shaved side. He smelled like cigarette smoke and warm skin and male sweat.

“Dunno. He just kinda rubs me the wrong way.” He lit his cigarette with a flourish. “Stuck-up.”

“He really isn’t, though.”

“Dressed and talking like that? They always are.”

“Because you know a ton of British-Indians who wear Hugo Boss like it’s casual daywear.”

“I might.” He turned to grin at me around the glowing end of his cigarette. “They’re usually in the closet too. Makes it feel a bit more dangerous when you’re sneaking into their million-dollar condos at night.”

I laughed and gave him a little nibble on the shoulder, where his collarbone juts out from under his t-shirt. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Psh. Why are you defending him, anyway? Thought you’d just met.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, what? You in love with him or something?”

“‘Course not.” In the moment, it occurred to me that to mention it would just dig the hole deeper, but for some reason I made myself say it: “He did ask me on a date, though. Last week.”

Red snorted so hard I was afraid he’d hack another fire gizzard spark into my hair. I brushed through it just to make sure, but he pushed my hand away and slid his own across my scalp and gripped my hair at the roots, just tight enough that I could feel it. Call me weird, but that’s one of the better feelings of life, if you ask me.

“Don’t tell me you went,” Red said, then laughed his smoker’s laugh when I nodded under his hand. “Shit. Guess I misjudged Mister Professor, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I figure guys like him wait until at least the third date before whipping it out.”

“Oh. No, dude, it wasn’t–we didn’t hook up or anything. It was just a date.”

“You serious?” His hand fell abruptly out of my hair. “Since when does Toriv Vanellas ‘just’ go on dates?”

“What, you’ve never just had dinner and a conversation before?”

Red leaned back against my windowsill and blew a couple of smoke rings out into the city air. Guess that was a stupid question as far as he was concerned. Not that he’s never been annoyed at me before, but I didn’t see anything that he should be annoyed at me for, so that just annoyed me in turn.

“Don’t knock it ’til you try it, Red,” I said. “Mahendra’s a nice guy. It was nice. No expectations, you know?”

“Sure,” Red said, not looking at me. His phone buzzed and he glanced at it, then scowled and shoved it back in his jeans pocket. “God, what a bitch.”

I stood up and fixed my hair. “If that was still your mom, you shouldn’t talk about her like that.”

“Yeah, well, my ma doesn’t coddle me like yours does, so whatever.”

“Jesus, dude. So are you just going to smoke on my fire escape all afternoon, or do you have stuff to do?”

“I’m going.” He got up and brushed past me, trailing cigarette smoke like a miasma. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thanks for thanking me, for goddamn once.”

We stared each down across my living room for a long tense moment. I knew that I should apologize and maybe make some joke to reassure him — “come on, bro, his ass has got nothin’ on yours”, something like that — but I already knew it wouldn’t quite feel true. So I just let the moment pass and before either of us could jeopardize our relationship any further Red was gone, slamming the door and stomping down the wrought iron staircase until his noise blended in with all the other noises of a Sunday afternoon in Montréal.

I collapsed onto the couch and sighed, then jumped back up to open all the windows so the smell of Red’s gizzard-fueled cigarette smoke wouldn’t get into the furniture. Then I re-collapsed onto the couch and lay there wondering why the afternoon had gone to the dogs.

That was when it hit me, the thing that had bothered me as I was just waking up. I checked my phone hurriedly but there were no new messages from Mahendra, even though I had sent him one after he had left the bar the previous night. My last text to him glowed like an accusatory neon sign: hey let me know when you get home & be safe ok?

That he hadn’t responded after all was what I deserved, I guess, considering I had had eyes only for Red the entire night. I vaguely remembered Jamie getting upset at me for something, but by that time I had been more than halfway up the road to Hammeredville so not much was getting through. Everything after that had just been the same familiar whirlwind of sound and sensation and heat that a night on the town brings. It shouldn’t have been any different than usual.

Except that it had been different, and me not noticing that even though I had invited the guy myself had probably put me on somebody’s shitlist. By which I don’t mean Red, who could go off and be a petty, jealous ninny if he wanted to.

Thing is, I knew exactly how I could fix things with Red. He and I were pretty much the same make, after all, so I already knew that a saucy text message and a few drinks would get us right back in the friends-with-benefits zone without any problems. But Professor Mahendra Singh was a complete mystery to me. He had already made it clear that any overly friendly advances weren’t the way to go with him in these early stages, which pretty much eliminated all of my usual go-to solutions.

After lying on the couch racking my brains, taking a break for a bit of playtime with the rats, and then racking my brains again, I finally decided there was nothing for it and started busying myself with the weekly cleaning. Put on some good tunes and break out the broom and laundry detergent and soon you’ll have danced and scrubbed your cares all away. So I slipped my phone into my back pocket, which is as close as I come to forgetting about it, and did just that for the next couple of hours.

Unfortunately, there are some worries that even a good cleaning session can’t erase, so after a late lunch and a good stretch, I went out for a jog. Maybe it was still a bit cold for it, but nothing gets your blood going like running in the brisk spring air, so off I went.

Jogging outside in the middle of the city is probably one of the stupidest things a guy can do in this modern society. If you stick to the sidewalks then you’re constantly dodging slow-walking pedestrians, reckless cyclists, and uneven bits of pavement jutting out of the ground, but if you step onto the actual road then you’d better have your will all written up and witnessed. Montréal drivers are a lot of things but they are not friendly, and seeing a squishy flesh bag in their way instead of another screaming metal death carriage does nothing to make them less aggressive. Still, there’s nothing quite like running out in the open air, even with the noise and traffic and smog and constant threat of instant demise. And you couldn’t pay me to run on a treadmill anyway. Almost getting run over every five seconds is still better than jogging for forty five minutes and getting absolutely nowhere.

I followed my usual route through and around the Elven Quarter, breathing in the crisp air like sweet ambrosia and letting the city vibes clear my head. Sometimes I feel like this city is as much a parent to me as my own mom and dad, which I guess is a weird thing to say. I really couldn’t live anywhere else, though. The few times I’ve been out of Montréal were good times, but I was always eager to come back to my own place. It’s just where I belong. Just listen the next time you’re out for a walk or something: listen to how every beat of your feet on the pavement matches up with the music in your earbuds, feel how the earth vibrates under you like a heartbeat every time a truck passes by. Breathe in the aura of every single person you pass on the street and fall in love with them just as they turn the corner and disappear from your life forever. That’s what it’s like for me, living in the city, feeling so close to it. There’s nothing like it in all the world.

This is the kind of weird shit my brain gets up to when I’m running. It’s a bit strange to see it written down now, in electronic black on white. Almost like I’ve revealed too much of myself in the middle of all this word vomit I call an autobiography. Well, it’s not like anyone but me is going to read it, unless I already tell them all of my secrets first.

My first outdoor jog of springtime brought me round and round, farther than I should have gone for having been cooped up in indoor tracks all winter, but when a guy’s gotta run, am I right? So I just ran, giving all my breath and cares back to the universe. I ran so far that I dashed right past the building where my dad’s work makes it base, a welding gig that always smells of molten metal and big hulking dudes. I knew he tried not to work Sundays so I was ready to gallop on past, but then I noticed the light in the little adjoining workshop was on. Curiosity killed me, so I dug in my heels and veered over in that direction. And me being me, I didn’t realize how fast I was going until I was running towards a stationary object, so I basically crashed right into and through the door. It would be fair to say I barrelled, which I’ll admit is how I do most things anyway.

My dad was inside the workshop just as I’d thought he would be. He looked up sharply as I came in, which is about as surprised as my still-waters father runs. I followed his lead and closed the door gently behind me, then leaned casually back on it, my chest heaving from the long run.

I said, “Hey, Dad.”

Dad said, “Hello, Toriv. Is something wrong?”

“Nah,” I said breathlessly. I was streaming sweat like a madman. “Does something look wrong?”

He looked at me real closely, his eyes flicking up and down like he was checking for damage to my person. When he found nothing but a sweaty and disheveled me, he sat back and visibly relaxed. “You were out running, then. In this cold?”

“It’s not that cold. I thought you usually stayed home on Sundays?”

“Usually.” He looked away and rearranged some stuff on his workbench. “Your mother said she needs her space today. So I thought, best I leave.”

“So you decided to come to work instead?”

Dad shrugged and tossed me a clean-ish rag, which I used to mop the sweat from my face, then he pushed out a stool for me to sit on. I figured I should stay a while then. “Mom is having an emotion” is a lot of the reasons for stuff happening in our house so we’re both used to it, but just between you and me, I think it makes my dad a little lonely. In case you haven’t noticed yet, my parents tend to be on opposite sides of the spectrum for just about everything, so I wasn’t expecting him to say anything about it, but give me some credit as a son and agree that I can sort of tell anyway.

I sat back on the stool and savoured the feeling of my heart rate going slowly back to normal while my dad went back to his work. This little workshop isn’t part of his job here, but working for a place like this for more than twenty years gets you a few little treats, like the space to do all the really neat, delicate metalwork my grandfather taught him back when he was a kid. As I watched, Dad worked a few little pieces of silver with pliers and hammers, carefully shaping them until they fitted together just the way he wanted. Then he took the hand torch to them and worked his magic, finishing up a beautiful, unique piece of silver jewelry in the same time it takes me to do a pourover.

He held the finished loop of silver up to the light, inspecting it for any flaws. The jewelry my father makes is so tiny and delicate that it’s almost impossible to imagine him making it until you see it for yourself. I’m short and slender because I take after my mom, but Dad Vanellas very much belongs in the long line of elven blacksmiths he came from, at least when it comes to looks. He’s built, as the saying goes, like a brick shithouse, but Mom would say he’s gentle as a doe. Even with me being pretty much the most frustrating offspring in existence, I’ve rarely heard him raise his voice. To be honest, my dad’s pretty okay when we’re not arguing about how I should be living my life.

“That looks nice,” I told him.

He turned to me like he had just remembered I was still there and smiled. “Thank you. Maybe it will be for your mother.”

“I could use another pair of earrings, if you’ve got the time to spare.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “If you promise to not sneak me money under the door again.”

“Aw, come on, Dad. Work is work. I wouldn’t ask you to ply your trade for free.”

“Not from my child,” he insisted. “Never from my child.”

It’s hard to argue when he says it like that, so I did my filial duty and shut up as he came over to look at my head like it was a fresh new canvas.

“Drops again? Or something else?”

“Maybe just the one, for my helix.” I tapped the spot near the long thin end of my right ear, where a simple non-Dad-made loop was sitting.

“Your party earring.” He smoothed my sweat-flecked hair back behind my ear. It was the kind of parental gesture that makes you feel ten years old again, no matter how old you get or how long you’ve been away from home. “A cuff, then. Stay.”

For some weird reason, the word “party” out of my dad’s mouth made all the events of last night and this afternoon come rushing back to me. So much for my nice cathartic run. Guess even the city air can’t banish your misdeeds when you’ve messed up hard enough.

While my father went to gather some tools, I said, “Hey, Dad?”

“Hm?” He came back and took a tiny ruler to the side of my head, taking measurements for the ear cuff.

“Have you ever…” I sorted through every ending to that question I could possibly think of, trying to find the one that was the least incriminating and least embarrassing at the same time. “Have you ever sort of let someone believe that you cared about them, but then sort of let them down afterwards?”

My dad said, “Hmm” and turned my head with the tips of his fingers so he could measure along my ear.

“I mean…have you ever kind of sabotaged yourself and then woke up the next morning thinking, ‘oh god why did I do that?'”

“I am sure I have,” Dad said. “Silver or steel?”

“Silver, if you’ve got any left. So what did you do? To fix it, I mean.”

He walked off to the other end of the workshop to look at some scraps of metal he had and put a few choice pieces aside. Then he began to clean up the mess of his last project from the tabletops, making everything fresh and ready for the next job.

With his back to me, my dad said, “When you were still growing in your mother’s belly, we would fight a lot, she and I. The pregnancy was…difficult for her, though it is not an excuse.”

I sort of knew all this, so I just said, “Yeah.”

“One day, she got angry. Very angry and upset. And I did not know what to do, so I left.”

“You left?”

“Not forever, of course. I never intended to leave her forever. But I went out without saying, and she did not–” He paused to hang up some tools on the pegboard on the wall, putting them carefully back in their places. “She did not understand what I meant by it. She thought I was gone.”

I leaned back on the stool and rubbed the sweat from the back of my neck. Dad shuffled around some more, putting things back, taking other things down and preparing them on the workbench.

“In truth, I was only around the corner, at Sharpe’s.” A bar everyone in the Elven Quarter knew, run by an old friend of my dad’s. We’d used to live practically above it. “But when later in the evening I returned, she was crying like I had broken her heart. I suppose I had.”

It’s weird to hear this kind of stuff about your own parents. I’d always known my mom had had a tough time being pregnant with me — it’s one of the reasons I don’t have any siblings — but they’d never told me any stories like this. I felt more than a little awkward and I could tell my father did too, but it didn’t stop me from asking, “So what happened?”

“We talked about it. I promised her I would never leave her like that again. And again she was very angry, but in time she forgave me.”

He tilted his head at his table, counting his tools, then nodded to himself. “I decided it was best to be open, to talk about the things you feel, and to be sincere in seeking forgiveness from others. It made me a better husband. But you are not looking for marriage advice,” he continued. “Are you?”

“Uh. Not exactly. But it’s okay advice anyway.”

“Good.” He finally turned to look at me and his gaze was steady and a little sad. Seeing that hurt my heart as if the invisible parent-child cord in my chest had suddenly been tugged real hard. “I know we have not always agreed, as father and son, but…”

“No, Dad,” I said quickly. “It’s fine. It’s behind us now. Right?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah…isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” he said. He came over and took the sweaty rag from me. “Tomorrow, do you work?”

“Not until nine. I was thinking of coming to make you guys breakfast, actually.”

“That would be nice, amavae,” Dad said.

He hasn’t called me that since I was a kid, which put the weird cherry on the top of this weird father-son bonding time cake, so I stood to leave. A cold gust of wind blew in when Dad opened the door for me.

“Perhaps take the metro home,” he said to me.

“Nah,” I said, though I shivered so hard it made my teeth clack. “You always walk to come to work, so there’s no reason I shouldn’t walk to go home.”

He just smiled and waved me out, so off I went again, into the chilly evening air and the orange light of the sun setting behind the skyscrapers. I ran all the way home, breathing the life of the city itself, my father’s words echoing back and forth through my head the whole time.

When I got home, I kicked off my running shoes and jumped in the shower. There’s nothing like a good shower after working yourself to the bone, whether it’s during a workout or a long day in the shop. While I soaped and rinsed all the dirt and sweat of the world away, I made up my mind to check on Mahendra. I still had no idea how he was feeling about me basically ignoring him the whole night, but I wasn’t going to find out by lying on my couch and feeling sorry for myself, so I just had to jump in and hope for the best.

I toweled off my hair and sat on the bed to make the call. The line rang and rang and rang, ratcheting my nervousness up by several degrees every time, until finally it opened up, and I said, “Oh, hey, Mahendra–“

“This is the voicemail of Mahendra Singh,” the voicemail of Mahendra Singh told me, which was probably also what I deserved. “Leave me a brief message and your name and number and I’ll get back to you soon. Ceci est la boîte vocale de Mahendra Singh–“

I fell back onto the bed and groaned. So far, this was not going as smoothly as hoped, but I guessed leaving an apologetic message would still be a good first step.

“And just in case you’re one of my students calling me frantically in the wee small hours of the morning,” the voicemail of Mahendra Singh continued, to my surprise. “Remember, you’re the one writing your thesis, not the other way around. Now go get some sleep, please.”

The virtual answering machine beeped and I scrambled to find my words again. “Oh, okay, hey, Mahendra. It’s Toriv. Uh, cute answering machine message? I’m guessing your students call you a lot, huh?”

Not. Going. Well. I cleared my throat and sat up again. “Okay, listen. I know I kind of left you high and dry at the bar last night, so you might not have had the best time, and I just wanted you to know that I take full, absolute full responsibility for that. I’m a douche for inviting you to hang out with us and then not following through. We have established this now. And I’m–I’m real sorry for it. Honest.”

The voicemail of Mahendra Singh waited, judging me silently. I resisted the urge to clear my throat again. “So look, all this to say, I want to make it up to you. Let’s meet up again, okay? Just you and me. And I promise to not be a total drunken fool this time.”

I stopped, out of breath and out of ideas. Across the apartment, the rats shuffled in their cage, chittering encouragingly.

“Okay, well,” I continued, but in a totally poised way. “It’s up to you, then. I’ll see you at the shop, I hope? Bye.”

I hung up, which doesn’t give nearly the amount of relief and satisfaction it did when phones had to be put down to be turned off, but I managed. Nothing to do now but wait to see if he would answer this time. It’s more hoops than I’m used to jumping through for a man I barely know, but I had the feeling it might be worth it, if I let it. If I allowed myself to care. And if he decided he wanted to give me another chance.

\\ Mahendra

I woke up the next morning feeling absolutely wretched. It took me a few moments to remember why, and when I did the sense of shame filled me up like fire in my gut, and like a child I groaned and pulled the duvet up over my head.

Hidden there in the warm darkness of the under-duvet world, I could allow myself to feel all the uncomfortable feelings I had been fleeing in my slumber. Most prominent was the embarrassment I felt at having been duped into thinking I mattered to someone like Toriv Vanellas. How could I have been so foolish, to think for a moment that someone as magnetic and popular as him would have any interest in me? If I had ever met anyone whom I should have considered out of my league, it was him. Best I face my defeat and accept it as quickly as possible, in order to shed these feelings and wrestle my life back on track.

I spent a few long minutes hiding there, trying to rid myself of any scrap of youthful optimism I had left. Finally, there was nothing to do but get up and face the world again, so I slumped out of bed to shower and clear my head. A headache pounded between my temples, the combined result of the alcohol and the late-night bedtime. I turned the warm water up and leaned my forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall, hoping that the sounds and sensations would soothe me back to my regular state of mind.

They say that inspiration sometimes strikes easier in the shower, something to do with the white noise and repetitive sensations, perhaps. I’ve learned in the long years of being me that leaving my thoughts to wander often may have a self-destructive effect, however. It comes from having a melancholy disposition. Whatever the reason for their coming, I spent a good portion of that shower session fighting back all the bad thoughts that emerged out of the steam: why did you bother, why did you try, why did you think you were good enough, not good enough, never good enough. Go back to your quiet, boring life, why don’t you. Yes, that seems the sensible thing to do, cheers.

In essence, I did about all I could to beat myself up, short of literally knocking my head on the wall. A fine thing for an adult like me to get up to, but if I wasn’t going to vent all these feelings while I was alone in my flat with no one to see, then there would never be another chance.

I emerged from the shower feeling just a tiny bit better, so I made a strong pot of tea, snuggled up in my fluffiest housecoat, and sat down to finish grading those papers. It was late afternoon by that time. A lovely springtime sun was streaming over the balcony in the sitting room, so I sat back to admire it for a spell, sipping my tea and trying to let my cares filter out through my skin.

It’ll be all right, won’t it? If I just make tea for one and sit here quietly? Nothing can go wrong in here. I’m through rebelling and taking risks and putting myself in danger. That was a lifetime ago. It’s all right to just live peacefully from now on, getting in no one’s way, doing things at my own pace.

These were the thoughts that I allowed to soothe me, as the tea went down warm and reassuring and the familiar rhythm of the scratch of my pen on paper rocked me into a comfortable stupor. I was much better suited to this kind of life, really. None of this running after fashionable young men who smelled of coffee and whose eyeteeth stuck out when they smiled. No more getting charmed by laughing green eyes or the brush of warm slender hands. I was done, over it, finished. A quiet middle age of good tea and classrooms for me, please and thank you. I require nothing else.

I was so absorbed in grading and in convincing myself that my life was perfectly fine that I failed to notice the blinking chat window on my laptop screen until it let out a shrill ringing noise. I jumped nearly out of my skin and sent my pen skittering across the floor. It seemed my sister was calling me on Skype. I dashed to retrieve my pen then rushed back and rearranged my facial expression — fix your face, as my mother would say — and answered the call.

“Hello, Charlotte, sorry I–“

The face that popped up as the video call resolved wasn’t my sister’s, however, but that of her eldest daughter, Celeste. At twelve years old, she looked very much like her mother in miniature. She smiled brilliantly and waved, making her curly hair bounce about her face.

“Uncle Mahendra!”

“Oh, hello, dear. How are you?”

“I’m just fine. Are you busy? Mum said you might be working–“

“I am, but it’s all right. Tell me what you’ve all been up to.”

Celeste spent a few minutes updating me on the all the goings-on in their house in central London. The girls have a lot of extracurricular activities so they keep very busy. Celeste on her own has school, violin lessons, dance lessons, horseback riding, and regular visits with my parents on weekends and holidays, not to mention the bevy of friends she must entertain on a daily basis. Last I’d heard, Celeste had been cheerfully putting up with it all. She’d certainly been energetic this past Christmas, the last time I’d been home, but that day she seemed a little changed. Subdued was the word. Celeste had always been an upbeat girl, never glum, except during that very difficult period just after her father’s accident.

“–haven’t even gotten to go out for dinner lately, with Annie being so–” She gestured elaborately to convey her frustration. “–Annie. She won’t even get in the car to go to school. I’ve had to take the tube with her all week. And then Grandmama found out we’d been telling the driver to stop picking us up, and I got in trouble for it!”

“Scandalous,” I said, attempting to look appropriately scandalized.

“I know! I said we should bribe him to keep him quiet, but he’s too ‘loyal to the family’, I guess, so Annie said it wouldn’t–“

“Celeste! We don’t endorse bribery in this family!”

Celeste only sighed like a woman five times her age. “That’s what Mum said when Annie told her everything. Maybe she’s the one I should have bribed.”

It took me some moments to impress the general no-no-ness of bribery on my eldest niece, but even after she’d had a good laugh at my expense (“I wasn’t really going to bribe anyone, honestly.”) she still looked a bit troubled. Talking to young girls of Celeste’s age about their feelings can be precarious, but I decided to take the plunge and asked, “Are you all right, pet? You seem a little preoccupied.”

“I am that,” she said, leaning her cheek in her palm. Luckily, Celeste is also the forthright sister.

It took only a few seconds of silent, parental staring on my part for her to shake her head and declare, “I got into a fight with Grandmama yesterday.”

“Over the driver?”

“No, no, another one. It’s because I told her I wanted to quit violin.”

“Quit? Whatever for? I thought you loved the violin. And you were so wonderful at your recital in December.”

“I guess,” Celeste grunted.

She seemed resigned to having much the same argument she had had with my mother, so before history could repeat itself, I tried another tack. “Why do you want to quit, then? Is there something else you’d rather do?”

She brightened at the question, but cautiously. So young to be so jaded with the adults in one’s surroundings. “Yes, actually.”

“Well?” I sat back and blew on my tea. “Out with it.”

Celeste held her breath for a moment, like she was deciding whether opening her heart was worth the risk, then she said quickly, “Polo.”

I nearly choked on my mouthful of tea, but managed to valiantly hold back from sputtering. “O-Oh. That’s unexpected. Field or water?”

“Field, obviously. I could probably even use my own horse if we start training right away,” Celeste said excitedly. Suddenly, she had found her childlike fervour again. “I’m sure Guinevere would love it too. She’s gotten so big now!”

“Big enough for polo, do you think?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “My riding instructor used to play, he said she’d do just fine. And my friend Gabrielle already has a club for it, and she said they want another member–“

“Well…” I blew some more on my tea to give myself time to regain my composure. “It sounds like you have it all figured out already. Almost like you’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“Yeah,” Celeste said, her glumness returned. “If only I had been able to carry out my master plan. But now that Mum and Grandmama know, there’s nothing for it.”

“Now, now…is the club in London? Surely you could find a way–“

“No, it’s outside London. Can’t take the tube or anything.”

She put her head down on the desk and sighed like her heart was flooded with sorrow. Poor thing. I longed to reach through the screen and comfort her. I wondered for the millionth time why I had chosen Montréal of all places, when being all the way out here prevented me from supporting the people dearest in the world to me when it mattered.

“I’d drive you if I could, pet,” I told her gently.

It was weak comfort, to be sure, but she rolled her head so she could smile at me through her disappointment. “I know. Thank you, Uncle Mahendra.”

There was a beat of silence during which we both probably felt a little sorry for ourselves, then I said, “You know, Cel. You shouldn’t be afraid to do the things you want to. Especially when you’re still so young.”

“Tell that to Grandmama.”

“I mean, ideally. In a perfect world with no grandmamas in the way.”

She giggled into her arm at this, so I went on, encouraged, “What I mean to say is, don’t feel like you’re wrong for wanting to do stuff other than what people expect you to do. I know this is just about your extracurriculars, but…other stuff as well. Life stuff.”

“I get it, uncle,” Celeste said, still into her arm.

“Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

Another silence, then she raised her head and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I wish Dad were here. He would think me wanting to learn polo is pretty cool.”

I had no idea if this was true, so I just said, “That’s because polo is cool. Though I’m sure it doesn’t sound as cool coming out of my mouth as it would coming out of your dad’s.”

Celeste laughed. “You’re cool too!”

“But not as cool as a dad.”

“You could be. Don’t you want to be a dad too?”

“Mm, I don’t know. Being an uncle is quite enough work as it is.” I fixed her with a look. “What with my rebellious niece bribing the family driver and rejecting her grandmother’s teachings all day long.”

Playing along, Celeste sat up and shouted, “Rebel, rebel, you’ve torn your dress!”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Rebel, rebel, your face is a mess!”

“Rebel, rebel, how could they know?”

“Hot tramp, I love you so–don’t tell your mum I said ‘tramp’ in front of you.”

Celeste was in stitches. “Who’s the rebel now?”

After the song and laughter had subsided, we chatted for a while longer until Charlotte’s voice called from off-screen, “Celeste! Let your uncle go now, it’s bedtime!”

“It’s too early!” Celeste called back.

“Celeste!”

“Fine…goodnight, Uncle Mahendra.”

“Goodnight, dear,” I said. I ached to say more, but I quietly pushed my latent parental needs down. “I love you very much.”

Celeste smiled, heartbreakingly sweet. “Love you too. Come visit again soon, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Perhaps over the summer.”

“You’d better!”

She blew me a kiss then ended the call. I sat there in front of the empty chat window with my cooling tea, feeling old and lonely. The sun was setting past the balcony railing, refracting off the glass and metal walls of the surrounding condos like a fiery prism. I realized with a start that it was already getting to be early evening, though I hadn’t noticed because of the lengthening of the daylight. Another year, another readjustment. No wonder I was always so sleepy, what with the seasons slipping by and trading their hours back and forth just as I was getting used to the new schedule.

I decided to go for a little turn around the neighbourhood before I starting putting down roots in the floor, so I changed into proper clothes and went out. The coat I slipped on smelled a little bit of coffee, which startled me. I supposed I would have to air it out later, and wondered how many of my clothes had absorbed the same warm, earthy smell. It wasn’t a bad scent at all, but if I was going to continue living my peaceful, uneventful life, it wouldn’t do to keep any reminders of my past folly around.

With that incredibly reasonable thought in mind, I went for my walk. Just half an hour, nothing overly ambitious, only long enough to enjoy the slowly emerging scents and sights of springtime in the city. The snow had nearly melted away in front of my apartment building, though everyone knows that there must be at least one more snowfall before spring settles in for good. I ambled along the main street of the Elven Quarter, admiring the way the store and restaurant lights lit up the falling night. A great many savoury cooking smells wafted from restaurant doorways, followed by the heat of many bodies and the hum of conversation. In the romantic dusk light, every window seemed a perfect portrait, every room a wonderful golden world all its own. Passing slowly by all these different versions of living, I could look in and pretend everyone in those painted worlds was having the most marvelous day, the most charmed life. And in doing so, perhaps I came one step closer to imagining my life as being the same.

Things aren’t so bad, after all. You haven’t been unhappy.

And it was true that I hadn’t been. All things pass, as they say. Having grown older, I know this to be true, because I’ve come out on the other end enough times to trust that I can do it again. I suppose that is what I have gained from all this. It’s the kind of lesson that will see you through most things.

I turned and slowly began to make my way back to my flat, taking a bit of a detour to vary the journey home. That was how I came upon the Café Vanellas again, quite by accident, having arrived from the opposite direction that I normally arrive from. It was properly night then, the streets gloomy between the streetlamp halos on the sidewalk. The bay window was lit up like a painting of its own, showcasing the quaint little tables, the dozens of mini-prints and photos hung up on the walls, the collection of hand-painted mugs on the shelf above the counter. It looked like such a warm place, such a homey place that I couldn’t help feeling drawn there, despite my very recent mishap with its owner. Through the hazy glass, I could see the twin red-haired baristas, Daeci and Kiv, and another girl, a teenager with a backwards baseball cap, all going through the motions of closing the shop. They waved at the last of the departing customers and Daeci locked the door behind them, then they began moving tables and chairs back to their original positions while giving the whole place a last little cleanup. They seemed comfortable and happy, like a family, or rather like a family should. I turned quickly away then, before they could chance a look outside at me, and headed home.

When I arrived back at my darkened flat, a glow from the far end of the sitting room caught my eye. It turned out that I had left my mobile on the couch during my walk and had not even noticed. Next it will be my keys or my very important term papers, and then we’ll see the sort of trouble I get into.

I picked it up to check the lit-up screen, and my heart thudded as I read: Toriv Vanellas  — 1 voicemail message.

What could Toriv possibly have to say to me? I speculated wildly for a solid minute before deciding it was ridiculous to hypothesize, so I dialed the voicemail number and listened for the message. “Oh, okay, hey, Mahendra. It’s Toriv.“

Just hearing his voice so close to my ear was enough to make me a little unsteady, so I sat to listen to the rest. How was he the one who was apologizing to me? I couldn’t understand it, so I listened to the message again, and then a third time just for good measure.

After that, I sat staring at my phone for a long while. How to respond? Hadn’t I already decided that I was better off not getting involved with him or anyone like him, that I could perfectly happy without? It was uncanny how just a few words from him were enough to shake my resolve, leaving me right back where I had started.

The question was now, should I call him back? I glanced up at the clock, remembered it was dark, then remembered I had a phone in my hand and checked the time there. Not quite ten o’clock, but he probably had work first thing in the morning, if his previous week’s schedule was any indication. Still, I couldn’t deny that the desire to speak with him had been revived, perhaps worse than ever. And if he had gone through the trouble of calling me even after I had ignored his messages from the night before, then he must also be suffering some sort of effect after what had gone on last night. Maybe I had been wrong to assume he didn’t care, unless this was some sort of ploy to set me up for further embarrassment.

I thought of his smile, and his easy conversation from our dinner together, and the way he had wrapped his arms tightly around me for our first hug, and I decided that he didn’t seem like the kind of man to string someone along for his own selfish amusement. I washed up again quickly and changed for bed, then I sat on the edge of the mattress to type, Good evening, Toriv. Are you awake?

In the few seconds it took me to turn the sheets down, he answered, yeah i’m still up! How are you?

I thought about it, then said, All right. A touch hungover earlier, if I’m being honest.

hahah yeah same here, guess we both got a lil carried away huh?

Before I could reply, he sent another message, which read: can i call you?

I hesitated for a long minute, then I summoned my courage and typed, Yes.

Almost immediately, my mobile vibrated in my hand, surprising me into dropping it onto the duvet. I snatched it back up and answered. “Toriv?”

“Hey there,” Toriv said cheerfully. He sounded just the same as always, but much closer. “How’s it hangin’?”

“It’s hanging…fine. I thought you might be in bed by now. Since you usually have an early start.”

“Oh, yeah. My schedule changes a little week to week. One of the perks of being the boss, I guess.”

“I see.”

We lapsed into an awkward silence. I leaned back against the headboard and tried to breathe through the frantic beating of my heart.

“So, uh–” Toriv said suddenly, at the same moment that I said, “Toriv, look–“

“God, sorry, I interrupted you,” he said sheepishly.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “I interrupted you. Please, go ahead.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I–“

“I insist. What were you going to say?”

“Just that…” He trailed off, then took an audible breath. “Just that I’m sorry. Again. I’m really sorry that I invited you to our guy’s night out and then basically forgot about you. It was stupid of me. And I understand if you’re pissed off at me for it.”

He stopped and took another deep breath, but when he didn’t say anything more, I understood that it was my turn. I shifted on the bed, fighting the twin urges to plunge into the situation or to run away as fast as I could.

“It’s all right,” i said finally.

“It’s really not, though. At least let me know if you’re mad or…?”

“I, well…I was upset, but…” I pulled my knees up close to my body. “How do I say this…”

“Just be honest,” Toriv suggested, his voice gentler than before. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Then…I’ll admit I was…rather upset, at first. In the moment. I couldn’t understand…I guessed you were having too much fun with your friend–your friends, I mean, and that you had simply forgotten about me.”

Toriv sighed and I heard the shuffling of fabric on the other end, like he was shifting around in his own bed. “Yeah, I  guess that’s pretty close to what happened. Sorry, I just–no, there’s no excuse. I’m just kind of a dickhead like that sometimes. I mean, I try not to be, but sometimes…” He made a frustrated sound. “I’m sorry, this is going really badly on my end. God.”

“You’re fine.”

“You’re fine. I can’t believe how calm you’re being right now.”

“Well…I’m a calm person.”

“Yeah, I got that much.”

“And honestly, in the grand scheme of things, what happened last night wasn’t really so bad. I was just…disappointed, I guess is the word.”

“Yeah,” Toriv said quietly. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Silence. There were more shuffling noises from Toriv’s end of the line, and when he settled his voice was even nearer and warmer, like he had moved closer to the speaker: “So, I’m sorry. And like I said earlier, I really want to make it up to you. If you’ll let me.”

My face got warm and I was glad he wasn’t there to see my expression. “There’s no need–“

“There is,” he insisted. “I don’t want you to think I’m in the habit of throwing off people at a moment’s notice. Especially not cool people like you.”

I had to swallow through the sudden catch in my throat. “You…think I’m cool?”

“Uh, yeah? Is that weird?”

“No, I just–my niece said the exact same thing to me, earlier today.”

“Awww,” Toriv cooed. “Look at you, mister cool uncle.”

“Only uncle.”

“Coolest uncle, then.  Nice.”

I laughed into my palm. I was so relieved it felt like wanting to cry.

I summoned my courage again and asked, “How are you planning on making it up to me, then?”

He made an embarrassed sound, half laugh and half sigh. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet. But I promise you it’ll be awesome. And classy. Like, Kingsman levels of classy.”

The grin that pulled at my mouth was irresistible. “It had better be. Manners maketh man, after all.”

“I love,” he said fervently, “that you know movies.”

It was my turn to sound embarrassed. “Not most movies. But Colin Firth’s work is of particular interest to me.”

“Then I love that you’re into Colin Firth. Tell you what, gimme a few days to think of a totally rad date to take you on and I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Okay. It must be getting late now, I should let you get to bed.”

“Nah, I’m good, I–” He cut himself off for a moment, then chuckled when he came back on. “God, I just yawned so hard my jaw cracked. You’re right, I need to sleep.”

I laughed gently and leaned my forehead against my knees, as though to hide my face from the empty room. “As do I. By the way, I…I’m sorry I didn’t answer your text message last night. I’m very sorry if you worried over it.”

“It’s all good, dude. I mean, being left hanging was part of what got me to wise up in the first place, so I should really be thanking you. Thank you, Professor Mahendra Singh,” Toriv said regally, “for ignoring my texts. You have shown me the error of my ways. I am most humbled.”

Lord, did he have to be so charming even over the phone? It was all I could do to not wriggle around on the bed like a giddy schoolgirl, but somehow I managed to answer, “You are welcome, good coffee peddler. May we meet again soon.”

“Most indubitably,” he said, then broke character completely to giggle and exclaim, “Look, you’ve even got me talking like you now! Okay, goodnight, goodnight, I gotta go.”

“Yes, of course. Goodnight, Toriv.”

“Sleep well. And take it easy.”

He hung up before I was quite ready for it, so I sat for a few foolish seconds just listening to the dead end of the line before I had the sense to put my phone down. The call had only lasted a few minutes, but the me from after the conversation felt significantly different from the me from before it. Funny how one’s worldview can change in the span of just a few moments, or in the space of just a few words.

I set my mobile down on the bedside table and bundled myself into bed. I was sleepy despite spending most of the day sitting still, but I still spent longer than necessary replaying the conversation with Toriv in my head. Was there hope after all? At that point in time, I wasn’t even sure what I was hoping for. A bit of attention, perhaps, from a man more interesting and attractive than any who had ever paid attention to me before.

As I drifted slowly off to sleep, I told myself that I could be satisfied if he’d just give me a little more of his time before the inevitable separation. If we continued to see each other, after all, I would have to tell him everything, all about my history and my demons. Just the thought made me tremble in my bed, and I suddenly felt very afraid and alone.

I took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly, willing all the dread to move out of my body with it. It didn’t quite work, but it was enough to allow me to grasp at that warm, exciting feeling again, of having him speaking so close and intimate in my ear. I held the memory tightly to me and snuggled deeper under the duvet, protecting myself from all the doubts that threatened to overcome me from within.

I never suspected just how deeply our lives would continue to intertwine after that. Perhaps I would have been even more afraid if I had, or perhaps it would have given me comfort. In any case, I soon tired of grappling with all my familiar uncertainties and roundabout trains of thought, and much like the night before, I slipped into a heavy sleep.

The next morning, a Monday, was a dreamy spring morning of the variety one rarely sees in March in Montréal. I saw it as a good omen and felt very cheerful indeed as I went about my sleepy morning routine. The day passed as usual, lectures and discussions and the distribution of reading questions. I always found it interesting how different the atmosphere of my uni classes differs from that of my cegep classes. I suppose that’s the difference just a few years can make, when one is in one’s early twenties compared to one’s late teens. I found myself idly wondering whether the difference would be as notable when Celeste and Anastasia grew to be college-aged. They were good girls, though mischievous at times, especially Celeste. I hoped she wasn’t as rowdy in class as she could be at home.

After classes, I stayed around for my regularly scheduled office hours and made a stab at writing an upcoming exam for my younger students. When that failed, I decided I was too hungry for it and headed for home. The sky was threatening rain by that time so I hurried from the metro exit, turning the collar of my coat up against the sudden chill.

In the distance, I recognized the warm amber light and cheerful green sign of the Café Vanellas. My inner world had undergone the deepest of turmoils and the loftiest of joys in the space of a week, but the little café remained as steadfast as ever, a comforting constant. My steps slowed and brought me to the door. The door chimes tinkled happily as I pushed inside, the colourful hanging things dancing in welcome.

“Bonjour et bienvenue!” The twins yelled from the counter. They posed like supermodels, mirroring each other in that perfect way that I’m sure only people who share the same DNA can pull off.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Here for coffee?” Daeci asked.

“Or for cake?” Kiv asked.

“Please order something,” Daeci said.

“It’s been dead in here and we’re so bored,” Kiv said.

I took pity on the poor taskless baristas and ordered a large mocha and a sandwich. They fired so many delicious-sounding recommendations at me that I ended up with a Frankenstein’s monster of a sandwich, but as promised it was all scrumptious, and I dined with relish as I flicked through emails and the news on my mobile. The twins puttered about the store, straightening things and cleaning the floor. It was raining in earnest by that time, great fat drops that splattered visibly on the sidewalk outside and left odd light-refracting patterns on the surface of the bay window. I imagined it was the rain that kept people from venturing out to their local coffee shop. Bad news for business, perhaps, but I rather liked being the only customer in the place. It felt a bit like being at home, except I was wearing shoes and sipping on a chocolate confection more lovely than any I could ever make in my own kitchen.

The minutes passed in this slow, blissful way, with the patter of the rain as a pleasant counterpoint to the acoustic guitar music piping in through hidden speakers, then the door was thrust open with a flutter of the chimes, and a familiar, slender figure in a hooded sweater strode in, their hood up against the rain.

“Whew. Good thing I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West,” Toriv said to his staff, both of which smirked and tipped their chins towards my table in mischievous unison.

Toriv turned to me, pushing his hood back and running a hand through his rain-soaked fringe. His eyes were bright as he said, “Oh, hey there.”

“Hey, yourself,” I said. I noted his sporty-looking hoodie and jogging leggings and shoes, all in sleek black and white. “You weren’t out running in this weather?”

“I’m afraid I was, good sir,” he sighed. “The rain snuck up on me as I was on my way back. I’m soaked down to the core of my very being.”

He pulled his hoodie up over his head and shook out his hair. From the counter, Kiv threw him a clean dry towel, which he caught deftly and used to mop the back of his neck. He gave me a strangely shy, inquisitive look from under his lashes, so I pushed out the chair across from me with my toe. He darted over and sat, smiling all over his exercise-flushed face.

Now that he had removed the hoodie, I saw that he was wearing nothing but a vest of the same slick black sports material, baring his arms and shoulders. There were swirls of dark ink running from his collarbone and the base of his neck down to the cleft of his pectorals, and more visible along the curves of his deltoids and biceps. There was something vaguely familiar about the intricate swirls and patterns — something traditionally North elven, perhaps — and the whole was in fact very striking against his lightly browned skin.

He caught me staring, flicked his eyes towards the ink, and grinned. “You a fan of tattoos, Professor Singh?”

I cleared my throat. “In a cultural sense, I suppose. Inking of the skin is a long-standing tradition in many cultures.”

“And in an aesthetic sense?”

“I can certainly appreciate that,” I said quietly.

He seemed to get my drift, for he stuck out the point of his eyetooth in a cheeky smile as he rubbed the rain from his hair. Then he gestured towards the twins, who came over to bring him a demitasse of espresso, though the delivery of it certainly didn’t require two people. Having the two of them standing momentarily over our table felt oddly like being chaperoned, so I kept my nose in my mocha until they had finished fussing over their rain-dampened employer.

When the two red-headed baristas had disappeared into the backroom to carry out some coffee shop task or other, Toriv set his towel down on his lap and ran a hand through his hair to place it. His voice was low as he said, “So, uh. I thought of something. For that rad date I mentioned.”

I looked at him over the rim of my cup. “Really? I thought you said a few days…”

“Let’s just say I was extra-motivated.” He winked like a rogue as he sipped at his espresso. “There’s this place in the Old Port, The Ver’aranas Lounge. It’s a small, quiet, lounge-type bar, real classy. A friend of mine runs it.”

He showed me some pictures from the website on his mobile, and I said, “It looks lovely.”

He nodded. “It’s on a little side street too, a bit out of the way, so it doesn’t get too busy. There’s even a little balcony if you want to admire the old world European architecture across the street.”

“And a view,” I said. My face was flushing just at the thought of spending an evening on an intimate terrasse with such a man. “It sounds wonderful, Toriv.”

“Really? So you’ll come?” he said excitedly.

A laugh bubbled up in my throat as I said, “Yes! Yes, of course.”

“Great.” Toriv heaved a relieved sigh, sat back in his chair, and knocked back the rest of his espresso like some kind of victory shot.

We sat together in silence for a while, gazing at the raindrops criss-crossing each other on the window. I drained my mocha and set the mug back on the table, and when I looked up Toriv was looking at me, his head tilted a little to the side, thoughts ruminating behind his eyes. It was a considering gaze, a what-if gaze. I was well-acquainted with such a look, though it had been some years since it was pointed towards me. The feeling it gave me was familiar and foreign all at once. Exhilarating, though the two of us continued to sit quietly in a quiet shop, contemplating each other in silence.

Finally, Toriv turned his gaze away, his hand going to the back of his neck. I couldn’t tell if the flush across his cheeks was a remnant of his run or if he was feeling as self-conscious as I was.

“I need to go home and shower,” he said. “But, um, is Saturday good for you? I’ll pick you up at your place.”

“Saturday is perfect. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He gave that little giggle that I had first heard over the phone the night before, and it was even better in person. “You can’t thank me until I’ve done my maximum to woo you first.”

“Then I’ll be waiting,” I said.

He left soon after, with a twinkling smile and a “don’t be a stranger”. As he went he made some aborted gesture towards me, as though to hug me again, but seemed to think better of it and simply let his fingertips slide off the edge of my shoulder.

I sat in the café for a while longer, just until the rain had thinned enough for the walk home. Though it was cool and dark outside, my steps felt light, and I felt very awake and energized, my mind buzzing with so many possibilities it was impossible to catalog them all.

That evening, as I went to bed, I texted Toriv a simple goodnight, which he answered in kind. Like a fool, I held my phone against my heart for a moment, as though I could possibly feel him through it, and hoped that he would have pleasant dreams.