by Rose, Katia
There’s Mr. Businessman again.
“Oh really?” I challenge, going along with the stupid game. “Maybe I can prove you wrong. Maybe I can make you want what I want instead.”
“You said six weeks, right?” he asks. “That sounds like ample time to accomplish this.”
I gawk at him. “Are you serious?”
“Very. We give ourselves six weeks to win one another over to our points of view, and we keep seeing each other in the meantime.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I proclaim, “and childish, and really not going to work.”
He shrugs. “Probably not, but I...”
He trails off and his fingers stop tracing patterns on my leg. Instead, he just stares at me, and there’s a pain in his gaze I’ve never seen there before, an ache so deep I’m almost ashamed to look at it, but I do. I stare back at him, trying to find the source of where he’s hurting, trying to find a way to make it stop.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a chance on anyone,” he says softly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a chance on myself. Almost everything in me is telling me to run from this , to give it up, to walk away before I hurt you. I should do it. I should. I just—”
“It’s okay,” I murmur, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay.”
I don’t know what he’s thinking about. I don’t know where he’s gone in his head, but I try to comfort him all the same.
“It’s selfish,” he continues, “and it doesn’t make it any easier knowing how unselfish you are, but I can’t help wanting more of you. I know I’m not in a position to ask it, and you’re not in a position to give it, but still I...Je veux te connaitre. Je veux que tu me connaisses.”
I want to know you. I want you to know me.
The words are simple, free from the weighted loads hanging off terms like ‘relationship’ or ‘love,’ and yet there’s an even greater heaviness in their simplicity. It’s the weight of silence, of expectation, of empty space waiting to be filled.
“Je veux te connaitre,” I repeat, as he lowers his forehead to press it to mine. “Je veux que tu me connaisses.”
* * *
Roxanne perches on a barstool, sipping the fancy coffee drink she made herself with Taverne Toulouse’s barely-used espresso machine. I sit facing her on the other side of the bar, plugging away at a spreadsheet on my laptop.
“This is a really fun friend date,” she drawls, rocking the barstool back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, glancing up with what I’m sure must be manic-looking eyes to shoot her an apologetic frown. “I’ll be done in like five seconds. I just have to get this wrapped up. I’m so behind this week, and Fucking Félix Fournier is already pissed enough as it is. He’s really picked a great time to actually show an interest in his own business.”
The call from the police might have had something to do with that. A full week has passed since the night my employees now refer to as ‘The Incident,’ and Fournier is still grumbly enough that I think it might take a blood sacrifice to appease him. He’s been demanding all kinds of reports and information from me that he usually doesn’t give a shit about. I suspect it was spurred on by not being able to answer basic questions from the police about his business. He called me after they interviewed him and yelled for so long I just put speakerphone on and got a few things done around the house while he finished.
He really doesn’t need to make a show of being angry anymore. There’s no impending lawsuit, and the police left us alone as soon as Julien declared he wouldn’t be pressing charges. ‘The Incident’ did get a brief mention on a few news sites, but miraculously, that seems to have increased sales this week rather than send them down even more. Friday and Saturday night actually outsold what we made on the same dates last year.
If it couldn’t have so easily gone horribly, horribly wrong, I’d almost say the night was a blessing in disguise.
“I’m teasing, Monroe,” Roxanne assures me. “I know you’re busy. It must be hard fitting all that dick into your schedule. Very hard. Rock hard, even.”
“Roxy! Don’t make me regret telling you about it.”
“You’re going to tell me lots more about it,” she insists. “That’s what we’re getting together today for, non?”
“I thought we were getting together to talk about bridesmaid stuff.”
DeeDee’s supposed to be meeting us here any minute before we head off for Sunday brunch—that is, if she’s actually managed to drag herself out of bed before mid-afternoon.
“Colour schemes, hair accessories, dicks—it’s all on the agenda for today,” Roxy jokes. “DeeDee doesn’t even know about you and Frenchy yet.”
“I know.” I sigh. “I’ve just been so busy.”
“With the French dick.”
I reach for a coaster and throw it at her. She’s aiming to return the shot when DeeDee barges through the door, huge sunglasses on and her pink hair tossed up in a lopsided bun. She’s belting out the chorus of Macy Playground’s ‘Sex and Candy,’ butchering the words with her heavy Québécois accent.
“What, is it that obvious Monroe’s been getting laid?” Roxanne asks when DeeDee slumps onto a barstool beside her.
The huge sunglasses get whipped off in seconds, revealing hungover but feverishly curious eyes. “I was singing that because I got laid. Alors, tu as fait un petit peu du crac crac boum boum, hein?”
She wags her eyebrows at me. I grimace.
“Please do not call sex ‘crac crac boum boum.’”
It’s the equivalent of ‘hanky panky.’
“Boum boum crac crac, then. Did you do it?”
I sigh again. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
She holds her hand up for a fist bump, and I oblige. I have done my fair share of crac crac boum boum this week. I went back to Julien’s place on Thursday night and got to know his couch as well as I now know his kitchen island.
“Wait, wait, wait,” DeeDee urges. “Who did you sleep with? WAS IT RED WINE GUY?”
Red Wine Guy. Frenchie. Beard Guy. He already has a variety of nicknames among my friends.
“Let me finish my damn spreadsheet,” I reply as DeeDee starts bouncing up and down on her stool. “We’re supposed to be discussing this over brunch.”
By the time we actually get to the restaurant and order, DeeDee and Roxanne are already up to speed on all the details about Julien and I’s unorthodox arrangement.
“So you’re going to convince him not to buy Taverne Toulouse and to pack up shop with his wine gig by using the mystical powers of your vagina?” Roxanne inaccurately summarizes.
“No,” I correct, “my vagina is not supposed to be the main source of influence here. I just...I know it sounds crazy, but the more I’ve been thinking, the more it seems possible I might actually change his mind about Taverne Toulouse, and I’ve realized that I really...want to. Not just for the bar.”
I can feel both their eyes on me as I fiddle with my napkin.
“I like him. I really do, and I want to help him. He doesn’t seem like somebody who lets people in very often. He hardly sees people outside of work. Even his apartment has next to nothing in it. He’s so alone, so isolated by this...this obsession he has with pushing himself to achieve things, and he needs—”
“Monroe.” Roxanne cuts me off as gently as she can. I look up to find concern painted across her and DeeDee’s faces. “It’s not just about what he needs.”
“I know,” I try to assure them. “I know that. He’s also...He’s the only person I’ve ever been with who makes me just forget about everything, to stop worrying and wondering if everyone has what they need. It sounds selfish, but—”
“It’s not,” Roxanne interrupts again, “and I’m glad to hear that.” She smiles her sincerity at me.
“Sound like he can bouffe la chatte très bien,” DeeDee adds, and I’m glad there are no kids in the place to hear her talking about ‘munching the pussy real good.’
Never a dull moment with the pink-haired princess around.
“He is...adequate,” I reply with a cryptic grin.
Our food arrives, and we continue the conversation over bites of waffles and eggs Benedict.
“I really think I can make him understand about Taverne Toulouse,” I tell them. “He acts like this super efficient businessman with no time to mix profits with sentiment, but there’s more to him than that. I know it.”
“You really do like him, don’t you?” Roxanne observes me over the top of her coffee mug. I don’t know how she’s not constantly bouncing off the walls with the amount of caffeine she downs. After all the years she spent running a cafe, she must be immune to the effects by now.
“Probably too much.” I groan, realizing how pathetic I sound.
DeeDee pats me on the shoulder. “When am I meeting this bearded stud cookie?”
“Muffin,” I correct with a laugh. “The phrase is ‘stud muffin.’”
She shrugs. “Whatever. I like cookies better.”
“You should invite him to the slam!” Roxanne exclaims.
“That is actually...a very good idea,” I reply, excitement quickly taking me over.
For the past year, I’ve been letting a Montreal slam poetry group use Taverne Toulouse for their monthly events. We actually lose money on it since the slams are all ages and thus we don’t sell alcohol during the show, but the group has had such a hard time finding a venue that even in the midst of our financial woes, I haven’t considered retracting the offer.
“It will show him the value of community and a generous spirit,” Roxanne proclaims with a melodramatic flourish of her mug, “and of the arts.”
“Oh, he knows the values of the arts. You should see his Shakespeare collection.”
“Don’t tell me he’s as nerdy as you,” DeeDee teases. “Do you talk about like, Vikings and...Latin and stuff?”
“Yes, we recite the Prose Edda to each other as foreplay,” I answer drily.
Then again, making Julien read Norse myths to me in that accent of his might not be such a bad idea.
“I’ll invite him,” I announce. “It will be good for him to see Taverne Toulouse as something other than an empty house or an uncontrollable frat party.”
“It’s usually somewhere on the scale between the two,” Roxanne reminds me.
“Yes, well, whatever,” is my cutting reply. “By the way, DeeDee, what did you get up to last night? Or rather, who?”
A huge smile splits her face. “You know that guy with the spider tattoo on his neck I’ve been telling you about?”
Roxanne and I share a covert grimace.
Here we go again.
Most people who meet her expect DeeDee’s love life to be as party central as her personality, but she rarely goes very long before jumping headfirst into a committed relationship. She falls in love with the same glittery enthusiasm that seems to exude from her every pore whenever she gets on a dance floor, but she’s yet to fall for anyone who’s even half-deserving of her sparkle.
“We’re going on a date tomorrow,” DeeDee continues. “He’s actually very sweet.”
I hope she’s right. I hope this relationship—because it will inevitably become a relationship—works out better than her last few. Still, I can’t help thinking of the ‘very sweet’ guy at my bar who I know for a fact would give absolutely anything to make her happy.
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her. “You’ve been after him for weeks now.”
Eventually, we get to discussing what we’re actually here for: Roxy’s wedding plans. The approaching nuptials won’t be happening for the better part of a year, so there’s still plenty of time to make final decisions. Besides fashion, Roxanne’s not into all that many stereotypically ‘girly’ things, so it’s an amusing change to see her heatedly debating with herself about floral arrangements.
“Roxy,” I urge, when she seems to be getting sucked into some kind of Pinterest warp tunnel on her phone, “whatever you pick is going to be perfect. You’re marrying Cole. The flowers you’re holding are not going to make that any more or less amazing. It will be incredible no matter what.”
“Heh. Yeah. I’m marrying Cole.” She glances down at her engagement ring, and her smile keeps a secret that even I, her best friend in the entire world, will never know.
It’s not the type of secret you can put into words.
“We’re such old farts,” I complain, before I can start to wonder why that smile makes me feel like someone’s carving out a hollow in my chest. “Look at us, brunching and making wedding plans. We used to be cool.”
“Hey!” DeeDee protests. “I’m still cool!”
She flags our waiter down and leans across the table toward him, impressive cleavage on full display, and in a deceptively innocent voice asks, “Do you serve tequila shots here?”
Thirteen
Julien
TERROIR: The geographical attributes of a vineyard unique to its specific location
“I have actually been to one of these before,” I answer Monroe’s question, “in Paris. It was great.”
We’re sitting next to each at Taverne Toulouse, where the main room has been set up with rows of chairs in front of the stage. Monroe glances at my phone as I slip it back in my pocket for the fifth time tonight, but she doesn’t reprimand me or give me a dirty look.
She gets it. She gets what a big deal it is for me to carve out a few free hours in my schedule, and I know she has to make just as much of an effort. I’ve never been with someone who makes me feel so comfortable in that respect. I almost feel a little too comfortable; I’ve mostly been checking my phone for show, to pretend to myself that I’m keeping a handle on work when all I’m really thinking about is her.
“These people are better than great,” she assures me, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. The friction of her thigh against mine is more than a little distracting. “Once they had a winner who was only sixteen-years-old, but her poetry...She had a gift. They all do. Oh, there’s Dylan. He’s a cook here, and sometimes he performs or MCs. He’s the one who asked if they could use Taverne Toulouse as a venue.”
A bulky guy in jeans and a black hoodie grabs the microphone set up in front of the crowd. For forty or so people, they’re making their share of noise, stamping their feet and whistling as Dylan makes an introductory speech to get them even more amped up.
Monroe claps along with them, and I don’t know how the rest of the crowd isn’t more interested in watching her than what’s going on up front. She’s not as dressed up as she was on our first date, but I think I prefer her this way—relaxed, comfortable, yet still buzzing with the energy that’s bouncing around the room. I see something else in her too: pride. She’s the reason all this can happen tonight, and sitting here watching it unfold, content with the part she’s played, she’s totally in her element.
She’s also totally, insanely, maddeningly beautiful. She caught my eye the first second I saw her, but it’s like the more I get to know her, the more fixed on her my eyes become. It’s a physical effort every time I have to look away from swell of her lips and the flash of her teeth when she smiles.
I force myself to tune in as Dylan starts explaining the rules of the slam: the poet’s each get three minutes to perform. Judges have already been randomly selected from the audience and given miniature whiteboards to write their scores. The performers can’t use props, costumes, or musical instruments.
“And,” Dylan adds, “I must remind you that you are not allowed to get naked.”
The crowd boos.
“Until our special edition ‘no rules’ slam next month, in which all bets are off.”
The crowd cheers.
I turn to Monroe. “Is he serious?”
She shrugs, cheering along with the rest of them.
“Okay, okay,” Dylan continues. “We’re about to get started, so—”
He’s cut off by several people in the audience shouting, “
BLOOD!”
“Blood?” I question Monroe.
“You’ll see,” she mutters.
“Right, right. How could I forget?” Dylan jokes like he was expecting the interruption all along. “We need some blood. Before we get the night started, we have a ‘sacrificial poet’ not competing in the slam tonight whose performance will get the judges calibrated and set the scoring barometer for the night. May I remind you, my sexy, sexy audience, that you are allowed—nay, even encouraged to verbally critique the scores. If you want higher, shout for higher!”
“HIGHER!” a few people start yelling already.
“That’s the spirit. You’re also encouraged to show some appreciation for the poets. If you like what you hear, let ‘em know! You can snap. You can clap. You can cheer. You can do a little tap dance with your feet. It’s all good. We also welcome all poets to the stage by raising our fists up high and shouting...”
“SPEAK!” the crowd finishes for him. They’re so amped up I find my own feet are starting to tap the floor with the same anticipation.
“You guys are doing my job for me. Okay, fists up. Please welcome your sacrificial poet...” Dylan pulls off a Gene Kelly-esque spin with surprising dexterity and makes some finger guns at the audience. “Me!”
“Speak!” I chorus with everyone else.
I know Monroe didn’t invite me here for an innocent date night; this is a clear ploy to show me what she thinks is so special about this place, and I have to admit, in some respects it’s working. I’ve never felt anything quite like the energy in the room tonight. The poetry night I went to in Paris was more of a smoky Beatnik affair. Everyone was trying to be cool and complicated as they sat there sipping cocktails that cost twelve Euros apiece.
It seems like every age group and subculture in the city is represented here tonight, from teenagers in anarchist flag-adorned denim jackets to a few girls in their twenties wearing headscarves and long skirts to an old guy sitting in the corner who looks like he might actually be Gandalf the Grey. They’re all fueled with the same kind of fire, a burning need to listen and to speak, to offer and accept. We talk so much about setting our differences aside, seeking what makes us similar instead of what sets us apart, but so rarely do we actually experience what it feels like when a group of people come together to do just that.