don’t fear the reaper
i loooove this song, we both said in unison, eyes big like pennies, as soon as it came on from the juke box in the dark corner of our favorite little dive that we hadn’t been to since my return, due to lack of time and too many circumstances. but we braved the cold last night and walked the 30 minutes it took for this most important booze pilgrimage, which we knew may very well be the last.
we stumbled in red faced and fingers frozen and glasses frosted over. we ordered our usual — double jameson, no ice — we sat in our usual spot. there were a few regulars playing slot machines in the background and the owner behind the bar smoking cheeky cigarettes somewhere mysterious because it always smelled of smoke but i never once saw him light up.
we talked about everything. we always do. we laughed about how i kind of pursued her and wooed her 4 years ago until she had no choice but to shed the tough girl shell and be my friend. and we’ve been best friends ever since. through it all. and there’s been a lot of all.
we drank our whiskey. we left the bar unceremoniously. we swore about how cold it was. god damn february and fucking montreal winters. it was easier to focus on the weather than the fact that we were going to miss each other like mad. or that i won’t be here for her birthday. or that we won’t be able to just meet up at idée fixe after work for a double.
don’t think about it. don’t think about it.
we sobered up when we saw the line-up at la banquise. i was told it was an institution, serving the best poutines in montreal since 1968. and i’d made it my mission to have one before leaving. so we took our place in line then squeezed into the jammed entrance and waited with every other cold and tipsy montrealer for what promised to be a damn good poutine.
“should we get small or large?”
“how about one small and one large and we can split?”
“but we both want a large don’t we? fuck it, let’s go all out”
we walked those heavy suckers the 5 blocks home, got in our pjs (elasticity is of utmost importance when you’re about to dive into une grosse poutine), opened the containers and i swear i heard the angels sing. and we ate and ate and ate and made it halfway through before it was clear that we could eat no more. at which point we brewed some tea. on a friday night. on the friday night that was meant to be a night of mayhem and taking the city by storm, we made tea. and lied in bed watching californication and lamenting the 2 pounds of poutine we’d just ingested. and i texted joe to say that i wished he could rub my belly and i’d ask her to do it but that would be weird. and she answered “yeah. and who’s going to rub my fucking belly?” and we cracked up so hard that it made our stomachs worse. there’s been a lot of hilarity lately.
and it was pretty much the best night ever.
and god damn, i’m going to miss that girl.
and i think i might have cold poutine for breakfast.