Chapter 4: Leftover Pizza is an Adequate Breakfast
When you’re in CEGEP and talk to people who are in university, they tell you how much harder university is, how you don’t have time to have a life, etc. When the session started and all the syllabi were presented in class, the amount of work didn’t look that tremendous, but now that it’s towering on my desk, staring me down, snickering at me with the clock, I understand why university is harder than CEGEP. It’s not the work itself that’s harder, but the amount; read this paper and respond to it, critique this essay by whats-his-name, give your opinion on this presentation, write a reflection on this subject. I’m so tired of giving my opinion on things, of writing in less than two pages my thoughts on some subject, I wish I could give someone else’s opinion for a change! And since my program is education, I have an internship this semester, which means I only have 9 weeks of school instead of 15. At first, when my friends and I learned that, we were like, “Yay, hurray, early end to the semester, ahahah”… No. Having 9 weeks of school only meant that midterms and finals were less than a week away. The week before Halloween, the week after Sam gave me her number, I had so much work to do, so many exams, that I barely had time to text her my own number and maybe a “hello” once every 7 cups of coffee. Then Halloween came around the corner: dinner and dance parties, events, all my friends wanted to see me, to hang out, their head free of midterms and ready to have a good time, and before I knew it, I was split in 14 and didn’t have time to see Sam. Her proposition to go out started to feel like an ancient thing, a dream, maybe a hallucination caused by excessive amount of caffeine and lack of sleep. But then she asked me out again, and we set a date halfway through my finals. That date became my motivation, a reward for doing all my work, going to all my exams, writing my opinion over and over again about things I didn’t even know I had an opinion for. I don’t remember if I ate that week; I assume I did since I found myself having left-over pizza for breakfast two days in a row. The thing was a little dry in the box, probably because I had forgotten to put it in the fridge, but it was still a decent breakfast. When Friday rolled into town, my head was heavy with sleep, my body was living on sugar snacks and meals made of everything I could find in my kitchen; since grocery shopping had become obsolete for two weeks and no one was shopping for me, I tapped into my emergency food, meaning all the cans of Campbell soup and the bags of minute-rice I had left. But that Friday, my heart felt light. I was almost done with my finals nightmare and a pretty girl was waiting for me at a coffee shop on Notre-Dame street.
***
I push open the door, my brain mentally going over my agenda, trying to list everything I have to do this weekend to be ready for next week. I look around and take the place in: the beautiful moldings around the ceiling, the white walls, the wooden floors and staircase, the mirror-covered wall. What truly captures me are the very impressive plants growing where a chandelier should be, high over everyone’s head, making this whole place look like an extension of a botanical garden.
Climbing up the stairs, I search for Sam. A softly pressed hand against my arm catches my attention; she’s sitting right next to me at a small table – I must’ve looked right at her and missed her. But now, her gaze is wrapping itself around mine, locking my eyes to hers, her mouth breaking into a smile, making a little dimple in the right cheek, but not in the left one.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I answer.
I sit down in front of her and smile in silence. The second I saw her, my brain emptied, like someone opened a window and the wind blew everything out of the room.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says as a mischievous smile forms on her lips, “but you look dead tired!”
I laugh!
“If only you knew! I’m living on coffee and donuts!”
She laughs, her laugh so candid my heart leaps inside my chest.
“So I’m guessing you don’t want a cup of coffee,” she adds.
“I would take it, but I don’t think my body can! At this point, my blood must be saturated with caffeine and one drop more and I would probably explode!”
She laughs again and it makes me feel so great; making her laugh takes no effort, hanging out with her takes no effort, liking her takes no effort. She’s so easy to be with, her smile is comforting, her eyes are sparkling with joy and a little hint of mischief, her laugh brightens the room.
“Do you want a cup of tea, then?” She asks.
I nod and smile. I look at her stand up, the way she walks; there’s a little bounce in her step like she’s always about to leap up in the air, flying! Her long curly hair, tied high in a ponytail, sways slowly from side to side, making me think of wind in the sails of a boat.
She comes back with two cups of tea, her eyes catching mine, the depth of her gaze making my skin tingle. She sits down, asking me questions about school, my program, my internship, if I like living in Montreal, the difference between here and the little town I come from. Every time I try to turn the conversation towards her, she finds a clever way of throwing me back the ball, making it all about me. But I do end up being able to ask her one question that she answers, opening a door for me to ask her some more.
“Are you in school?” I ask.
“Yes, I go to the Conservatoire de Musique et d’Art Dramatique (Musical and Drama Conservatory).”
“Wow!” I answer. “In music or drama?”
“Mostly music, but I’ve been doing drama on the side as a hobby.”
“What instrument do you play?”
I see her eyes light up and a smile appears on her lips; she giggles like she knows a secret I don’t.
“I play the piano, violin, cello, flute, and saxophone.”
I feel my mouth open wide, my eyes stare at her in disbelief. I know I look stupid, but I can’t stop myself.
“And, eh…you play all those at your school?”
“Not exactly,” she adds and I wonder what more there could be! “I study to be a composer.”
“Wow…”
I look at her, not sure if the person in front of me is real or not. I see her in a different way; the way she plays with the spoon in her cup of tea, the gracefulness in her fingers, the rhythm in her movement. The conversation turns to music, she asks me if I play any instruments and I feel a little embarrassed to admit that I don’t. Her smile is so soft, so nice, so warm though, that the embarrassment leaves quickly, and I just feel understood, heard. This girl has a way of making you feel like whatever you say, whoever you are, no matter the way you introduce yourself or describe yourself, it’s always enough. When our cups are both empty, she gets up and takes her coat.
“Come, I want to show you something.”
I put my coat on and follow her out of the coffee shop. We walk close together, side by side, on the sidewalk, her shoulder brushing mine every two steps, my fingers touching hers every once in a while, like an invitation to walk hand in hand, but not an obligation. We turn the corner of a street and she walks a little faster. I don’t know where she’s going so I just follow, picking up the pace. And then I see the reason of our walk; in front of us is one of those famous street pianos.
She skips to it, forgetting that I’m here with her, which I find adorable, she loves her art so much. She sits down on the bench, her fingers finding the keys like two old friends meeting and falling into their old habits again. I stand next to her, listening to her play.
https://open.spotify.com/track/6SctHYL0HaQ5hFpUxXULYa
I don’t know the song she’s playing, but it sounds so soft and calming. I sit down next to her, looking at her fingers move on the keys, then at her face. She’s not even looking at what she’s doing; she doesn’t need to, this song is a part of her, a little piece of herself. Maybe it’s the first song she learned, or maybe it’s just her favourite one; but I can see it on her face, the way she smiles to herself when she plays, that this song takes her somewhere else, on a trip to some personal, imaginary land. I close my eyes, trying to see where it takes me. It feels heavy and calm, like a forest. But then the song ends, and I keep my eyes closed for a second, the last notes still audible, floating in the air around us. Before I can open my eyes, I feel her warm hand against my cheek, turning my head a little to the side. Her lips meet mine and my heart stops for a moment. She pulls away, as if to give me the choice to kiss her back if I want to or to stop if kissing her wasn’t something I wanted. I pull her to me again, her warm lips against mine. The world around us doesn’t move, the time stopped. I can still hear the last notes of the song, somewhere deep inside the chest of the piano. But we are sitting on the bench, kissing, and this kiss erases the world around us, leaving only shadows of colours and things, and us.
Images Obtained From:
https://bloximages.newyork1.vip.townnews.com/norfolkdailynews.com/content/tncms/assets/v3/editorial/e/77/e77c2574-897c-11e6-9bd4-83d2f343ab48/57f2774fd1c63.image.jpg?resize=1200%2C789 / http://querelles.ca/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/tommy-cafe-montreal-querelles-1024×10241.jpg / https://untappedcities-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/Public-piano-Montreal-Saint-Laurent-Prince-Arthur_Untapped-Cities_Montreal_Lea-Plourde-Archer.jpg