The Bar Next Door Read online

  I can tell why this is important to Monroe, why it’s something she wants me to understand, and yet I don’t see this shitty student bar as the reason it’s possible.

  It’s her. It’s her vision, her energy, her commitment and passion. She’s a voice people listen to, a force that makes things happen, and she doesn’t even realize how much potential she contains. She could be running places two or three times this big with just as much efficiency. If she had final say in this business, I doubt I’d even own the place next door. She’d have taken over half the street already.

  She could reach so much higher than she allows herself to go.

  I’ve been zoned out for the first part of Dylan’s poem, but once I decide to leave pondering Monroe for a later time, it’s impossible not to give my full attention to his words.

  Monroe told me these shows are better than great. If Dylan’s talent is anything to go by, ‘better than great’ falls extremely short of the mark.

  He spits his words like a dragon snorting fire, his consonants the crackle of sparks and his vowels a snaking drift of smoke. The poem builds, the heat Dylan’s creating with words alone increasing with the pace of his rhythm. He’s telling the story of a street brawl, two boys wrestling in the dark, knives glinting and flashing in what was only supposed to be a fist fight. Dylan tells it from the perspective of a third boy watching from the sidelines in the midst of a crowd wooping and stamping just like us. He’s speaking so fast the words all blur together, just a roar of sound spilling fire over the audience, and then—then one of the boys is on the ground.

  By the time he’s done, the entire room is silent, everyone’s burning hearts now blackened with ash.

  The scores vary from eight and a half to ten.

  “Higher!” I find myself shouting along with half the crowd when the eight and a half gets announced.

  I give up on trying to analyze Monroe’s thoughts for the rest of the show. I do my best to let myself be here—really be here. It’s not hard when all the poets are nearly as good as Dylan. Some of the poems are funny and ridiculous; there’s an ode to selecting the right Snapchat filter and another one about how to pose when sending nudes. Others leave the audience stricken with horror and sorrow as they listen to stories of sexual assault or losing friends to suicide. What the links them all together is the way they use language not only as a means to get their message across but as a part of the message itself. Sound almost becomes personified in some of the pieces, taking on a character and a voice.

  “So?” Monroe turns to me as soon as the intermission between the first and the second rounds is announced.

  “That did not disappoint.”

  “And that was just the first round,” she informs me. “Shit gets real after the intermission.”

  “Does everyone go again?” I ask.

  Monroe shakes her head. “Just the top scorers, and then we found out who the winner is—unless there’s a tie, which I think everyone always secretly hopes for because poetry face-offs are epic.”

  “Poetry face-offs?” I repeat with a laugh. “Shit does get real.”

  “It does indeed. I’m going to go say hi to some friends now.”

  Monroe starts pushing herself up out of her chair and then gives me an expectant look when I don’t follow suit.

  “You know you’re allowed to come with me, right?”

  “You want me to meet your friends?”

  It’s a simple enough question, but that simplicity is only a smooth outer surface meant to hide the complicated network of circuitry underneath. There are implications here, ones we haven’t yet given ourselves an opportunity to discuss.

  This woman takes me straight to the deep end; there are no shallow waters when it comes to Monroe. I knew the second she walked up to me outside Frango Tango in her skinny jeans and Blunstones that there was no way this was ever going to be just ‘casual.’ It didn’t feel like any of the casual dates I’d been going on for years. Holding her hand did not feel casual. Watching her sip rosé on my couch did not feel casual. Sacrement, just looking into those damn eyes of hers feels more intense than some of the nights I’ve spent between the sheets with other girls.

  It was easy to come up with that ‘six weeks’ plan when the whole thing was just pillow talk. When you’re lying naked in bed with someone, spending six weeks doing more of the same and dealing with all your problems later seems like the best damn idea in the world, but reality has decided to jump in bed with us too.

  As the crowd mills around the room, talking and laughing, Monroe and I spend a few seconds caught in a complete standstill. I know we’re both wondering the same thing.

  How far are we going to take this? How tangled in each other’s lives are we willing to become?

  “We’re just saying hi to my friends,” she finally replies. “It’s no big deal. Come on.”

  As I follow her towards a group of people across the room, that old Victor Hugo quote my father used to caution me with comes to mind:

  When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes.

  Her words said this was no big deal. Her eyes say she might be just as afraid as I am.

  * * *

  “Did you have a good night?”

  Monroe and I are walking up Avenue Mont-Royal, close enough that our arms brush against each other every few steps. It’s well and truly spring now, and Monroe has let her jacket slide down to her elbows to enjoy the nearly-acceptably-warm night air. Music and laughing people looking for their evening’s next stop spill out of the bars we pass, and I know she just asked me a question, but all I can think about is whether or not I should reach for her hand.

  “Julien?” she prompts. “Earth to Julien.”

  “Désolé.” I run my hand through my hair before it can start seizing opportunities of its own volition. “Yes, I’ve had an excellent night.”

  We stayed at the bar after the show, lingering over a beer with Monroe’s friends until people started making their excuses and heading home. I feel myself grinning with the satisfaction of knowing Monroe is heading home with me; we didn’t say anything about it, but I didn’t fail to notice that our absent wandering is in fact leading us straight to the closest metro stop.

  “How long have you been hosting the slams there?”

  “About six months now.”

  “And how much does it cost them to rent the place?”

  She gives me a dirty look.

  “What?” I protest. “I’m just curious.”

  “I don’t charge them, Julien,” she chides like she’s just found out I skipped doing my homework. “It’s a community event.”

  “Community events can make you money,” I respond, not willing to let my point drop that easily.

  “Entry is pay what you can. They don’t have the funds to rent a place. That’s why they came to me.”

  “So instead of charging them, you could up the entry, make it eighteen plus so you’re selling drinks, work out a basic adverting strategy and—”

  “Julien.” She cuts off my argument as we arrive at the big square in front of the metro station, a few diehard street performers still working the crowds crossing the open expanse of concrete.

  “It’s just a nice thing to do for someone,” Monroe continues, firm but calm. “Why does it have to be more than that?”

  “It’s not that it has to be,” I parry. “It just...could.”

  If I only made things what they had to be, I’d still own one establishment instead of four and counting. I might not even be in Canada at all. It’s the push for more that makes things happen.

  “You wouldn’t even need to keep the money,” I insist. “You could make it a big charity event. You could share poetry with people who’ve never been given a chance to enjoy it. You could change things.” I’m letting myself get all fired up. I notice we’re standing still on the edge of the square, but I persist. I always persist. “If I had been content to run a little chicken restaurant, it never w
ould have grown into something big enough for Bento to manage. He’d still just be a cook. His family wouldn’t have jobs there. Ambition isn’t the only reason to go after more in life. Success can benefit so many more people than just the ones who step up and go for it.”

  “Wow, that’s great, Julien. Really well phrased. You should put that on a t-shirt and sell it to someone who actually asked for a lecture from you.”

  She moves past me and starts to join the throng aiming for the metro station doors. I stare at the back of her brunette head for a second before realization kicks in.

  She’s pissed off. Very pissed off.

  “Monroe, wait!”

  I have to call her name three times before she turns around.

  “I’m sorry! Please wait.”

  She doesn’t look happy about it, but she steps over to an empty patch of pavement and waits for me to catch up.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Sometimes I get...caught up. I didn’t mean to belittle you, or—”

  “Mansplain how I should run my business?”

  I bite back a grin. “Yes, that. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “You do realize I’m the one who pointed out how your restaurant benefitted Bento, right? You didn’t even know about his family until I told you, and you’re his boss.”

  “I know. Truly, I know, and that was going to be my next point.”

  Her eyebrows are still an angry flat line, but she doesn’t start heading for the station again, which I take as permission to continue.

  “You are...You are so different from anyone I’ve ever met in this profession. This industry does not leave much room for kindness, but you don’t let that stop you. You make room for kindness. You make time where it shouldn’t be possible for there to be any. You make people feel...seen. Cared for. Listened to.”

  She’s made me feel those things. She’s made me realize I didn’t stop needing them in all the years I went without them; I just forgot how much I did.

  Silence hangs between us. The lines of her face show the slightest hint of softening. I press on before this can get too intense, before I decide to kiss her right here in the metro station square.

  I have a more important point to make.

  “Your staff,” I urge. “I have never seen a staff like that before. You probably pay them less than mine, but I know you could pay them even half of what they’re getting now and they’d still be loyal to you. They’d still work their best. That’s rare, Monroe. That’s not an easy thing to achieve.”

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, staring down at the ground as she scuffs at little pieces of gravel with the toe of her shoe. I wait until she looks up at me again.

  “I think that’s why I get so carried away thinking about you. I know it’s not my place, and I’m sorry for that. I just...I see you hiding behind the help you give others, being content to have their satisfaction as your only reward, and all I can think about is how well you would do if you were under the spotlight yourself.”

  She covers it up with an eye roll, but I can see her fighting to hold back a grin.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Your mother must be a smart woman.”

  “Gahh!” She starts smacking my chest with her hands like I’m a giant house fly. “You are so smug and irritating sometimes!”

  “But only sometimes, right?”

  I catch her wrists with my hands and hold her there, palms splayed against my chest, until I know she can feel how heavy my breathing is getting. Her own has picked up too, her eyes wide in the dim light of the square.

  “Most of the time.”

  I breathe out a laugh. My gaze slips down to her lips. I release her wrists, but she doesn’t pull her hands away.

  “How about right now, chérie?”

  “Right now?”

  She leans closer, and my chest lurches at the way she has to tilt her head back to keep her eyes on my face. I can smell her hair now, scented with something flowery and fresh. She smells like spring.

  “Right now...” she continues. “Right now, you are...” Then she jabs an accusatory finger right in front of my face. “Right now you are one smart remark away from going home alone and playing a game of five versus willy tonight!”

  Several people passing by turn their heads to watch me nearly keel over.

  “Did you just—Did you—You—” I can only choke out a few words at a time between the hysterical gasping. “Where did you even...Five...F—Five...”

  “Apparently it’s a colloquial German term for masturbation,” she answers matter-of-factly, hands propped on her hips.

  “How do you know colloquial German terms for masturbation?” I manage to blurt before I’m dying of laughter all over again.

  “Because I read stuff, Julien!”

  “What stuff do you—Actually, never mind. You can show me exactly what kind of stuff you read as soon as we get to my apartment.”

  I grab her hand and practically drag her into the metro station. We skip the crowded escalator and head for the stairs, both of us fighting back residual laugh attacks.

  “Five versus willy...” I mutter when we’re on the platform waiting for the train.

  “It’s not a bad name for it.”

  “It’s a terrible name for it.”

  She smirks. “Yeah. It’s a terrible name for it.”

  I brush her knuckles with my thumb. She gives my hand a squeeze. I kiss her just as the train comes around the corner.

  Fourteen

  Monroe

  CLOSED: An underdeveloped wine whose flavours are not yet fully exhibiting their potential

  I can’t remember the last time someone picked me up for a date. It might have been prom. I suppose the advent of internet stalkers and text messaging justifies the way collecting your date at their place of residence has fallen out of fashion, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of romanticism when Julien asked what time he’d be picking me up tonight.

  I expect our ‘date’ is going to take the form of retaliation for my ambushing him with an evening of poetry and community spirit at Taverne Toulouse. He’s probably going to take me to some industrial warehouse to illustrate the values of commerce like I tried to illustrate the values of choosing human connection over profit.

  I have a suspicion that despite my best efforts, that night left me with far more to think about than him. He really did sound like my mom, harping on and on about me reaching my full potential, but somehow, the words stuck more coming from him. I know he was just trying to prove a point, but what he said latched onto my thoughts like a burr clinging tight to my clothes. It’s been impossible to pull it off.

  All I can think about is how well you would do if you were under the spotlight yourself.

  That’s never been what I want. It’s not even because I’m totally selfless—far from it, actually. I just feel more accomplished when I’m the one running around making sure everyone’s okay. It’s what I do. It’s who I am, and there’s security in knowing that.

  Only now that Taverne Toulouse needs someone to step up to the plate, someone to decide they have the ambition and ruthlessness needed to actually turn the place around, there’s no one ready for the role. There’s no one for me to help. I’m like a VP without a president. I’m standing there with someone else’s speech notes and realizing all the TV cameras are pointed at me.

  The ding-dong of the doorbell grinds my train of thought to a halt. I glance down at my outfit—my skinny jeans and a plain black v-neck—and pick a stray hair off my shirt before throwing on a spring jacket and grabbing my purse. Julien said we’re keeping it casual tonight, and I’m both amused and slightly nervous to see what he shows up wearing. After the sweatpants and ball cap incident, there’s no telling what he’s capable of.

  I pull the door open and don’t even hide the fact that I’m looking him up and down. I start with his shiny rich boy shoes, rake my eyes up over his blue jeans, and take in his broad chest covered by his Cambridge s
weater with a leather jacket on top. His beard somehow looks extra lustrous tonight, and now that I know what it feels like brushing the insides of my thighs, it’s the first thing I think about whenever I see his face.

  “Like what you see?”

  “Huh?”

  I realize I’m totally zoned out over his beard. He’s smirking at me from behind it.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Insufferable,” I mutter.

  “You look lovely,” he counters.

  I try not to smile. “Just lovely? I’m not ravissant tonight?”

  “You told me that was cheesy, but it is the first thing I thought when I opened the door.”

  So cheesy. So, so cheesy.

  Yet I can’t stop myself from beaming at him.

  “I think your books are trying to escape.”

  He nods to where my ever-increasing book stacks are inching their way out of the living room, getting closer and closer to the front door.

  “One day I’ll have to start lining the floor with them and putting my furniture on top,” I concede.

  We hover by the door, and I know this is probably the moment where I’m supposed to ask him if he wants to see my place. I also know we probably won’t make it to wherever he wants to go if we end up in a room with a bed.

  There’s another reason I hesitate; he still hasn’t seen my apartment, and it feels like the last bastion of defense. Between our date nights, all the post-sex conversations whispered in the dark, and the stupid photos and texts we send each other when we’re supposed to be busy with work, I’ve shared more of my life with Julien than I intended. We’ve only known each other for a handful of weeks, and yet he knows more about me than some of the guys I dated for months and months.