I had a bus in four hours, but I was headed in the opposite direction, following a digital map to a hidden location where a stranger waited for me.
My time across the border was nearly up, so I was seizing the free feeling that comes easiest in a foreign place where no one knows what you will or won't do. The heat had followed me north and you appeared on my phone with the simplest "Hi there! Melted in the heat yet?" You hadn't realized my life was hours away from you, but it didn't matter as the words flowed between us and my last day passed in the blink of an eye. It was you who asked if I had any free time before leaving, and I knew I had to say yes whether it was true or not.
Wearing the only dress shirt I had packed, I prayed a walk in that July heat wouldn't sweat through and ruin my first impression. The streets were busy as bars and restaurants filled up with the Friday night crowd. Tables spilled out onto terraces and blocked off streets, the city alive and welcoming in a manner that put me at ease despite the language difference. My path turned off the wide road onto a smaller side street and your directions made the end point easy to find. Nestled between a Nettoyer and the entrance to an apartment block was a narrow, nondescript metal door with a single word in black text:
Underneath
.
Behind lay a set of dimly lit stairs descending beneath the homes and businesses. Montreal was famous for its literal underground, and speakeasies like this took of advantage of space and history. Beyond a second, unmarked door at the bottom step, I walked into a recreation of that past, an incandescent lit foyer. A bored young woman waited at a Coat Check window, with little to do on such a warm night except offer me a "bonjour" and a light hand wave towards the bar and tables in the next room, behind a set of saloon doors.
A dark wood bar flanked one wall of an equally shadowy room, with deep velour benches on the opposite. Round tables for two and four filled the central space, which appeared to be a dance floor if emptied. On the far side there was a small stage barely bigger than the piano it supported, which sat empty that night. Instead, light jazz filtered softly through hidden speakers. Yellow light cast shadows from faux oil lamps and flickering candles on each of the occupied tables.
You were already waiting, patient with just a glass of water, looking idly around the room. Though over half the tables were full, you were easy to recognize from the pictures I'd checked too often in the past day. I had seen you dressed up in a couple, from theater nights and weddings past, but the effect in person was still a revelation. Your dress was simple, black and short sleeved, like a form fitting tee that hugged your chest and waist, but kept your arms and cleavage modest. I had a moment to gather myself, to notice the coolness of the air conditioning which fought with the heat inside my body, and the coolness of the crowd which left me feeling underdressed and momentarily unsteady.
Then your head inclined my way and you spotted me, with a smile just parting your lips and a nervous handwave of recognition. I tried to take an unnoticeable deep breath before walking towards you, poorly playing it cool in an attempt not to stare or appear too eager, possibly caught as I snuck a glance at your exposed thigh where the ruffled hem of your dress slid up. Just a moment allowed me to wonder if that view was an accident or a tease. You said my name with a question mark, and I replied with yours. This formality passed, I took the seat opposite you as you asked if I found the place alright.
There was barely time for banter before the waiter arrived. Drinks were ordered to calm our nerves, affording me a moment for a fuller look at you up close. Candlelight flickered, highlighting the exposure of your collarbones, the curve and smooth skin suggesting what the black fabric hid from view. And the smallest glint revealed the pearl studs in your ears as you pushed your long hair back. I studied a little too long and was caught this time, though you let me off with just a teasing and embarrassed big smile, the same one that struck me first from your profile. In this close space, it was disarming and relaxing, as refreshing as the gin which arrived in short order.
After that, conversation meandered easily, beginning with the recap of my time in Montreal and your plans for the rest of summer. Talk moved from my theater life to your journeys across Canada for school and work. We touched upon your family and my years in Boston, skirting past disappointments in our past to reach dreams for our futures. I still can't recall what I said that made you laugh and lie your hand upon the table, the tips of your fingers reaching out to graze my wrist. Despite the cooled air and the lightness of your dress, there was warmth in that touch.
It had been an hour already, the waiter returning a third or fourth time, asking about our empty glasses. Knowing I had somewhere to be, I hesitated, but you seemed to hang upon my silence, hoping I wasn't ready or willing to leave just yet. And of course I wasn't; of course I would have stayed there all night if I could've changed the schedule of my life. There was plenty of time yet, even if it would never be enough, so I ordered a second and you eagerly followed suit.
A crowd gathered as Friday evening slid into Friday night. The chatter picked up around us and we had to lean in to hear each other. Rested upon the table, our hands inched closer and our fingers begin to gently play... my fingertips brushing your wrist, your pinky looped gently around my thumb. As the noise in the room grew, I resorted to reading your lips, but how could I focus on the words? Your lipstick still shone strongly red. Now and then you'd brush a hair back from your cheek, or raise your glass for a sip. Each small move was a little dance, improvised just for me.
Our drinks began to run low again. As we eyed the dregs, a question from you shook me loose: "Don't you have to get going?"
I did. We both knew it. It was the right question, with only wrong answers.
"I suppose I should," was all I could muster.
The server was easy to flag down. Surely he'd been eyeing our drinks, hoping for another order or a free table for guests who drank more. He brought the check directly to me, and I was glad for the assumption. You bent a little sideways to reach for your purse, the turn of your body pulling fabric loose from your collarbone, the smallest candlelit peek at the cleavage you'd kept secret all evening. What else was underneath, I couldn't help but wonder.
"This is on me," I said firmly. "You can get the next time, if you insist."
"The next time, eh? So sure there'll be a next time, are you?"
"I guess there's always a chance they won't let me back in the country."
"Well if that's the only issue, maybe you just shouldn't leave."
"You have to stop suggesting that, because it's very tempting but I have nowhere to stay, so unless you need a roommate, I think my hands are tied."
