I turned to see him standing in my bedroom doorway. I was turning thirty soon, so anyone under the age of twenty-five was much younger. The night had been wearing thin by then, and I’d been in a rut in the last weeks, so I’d gulped down the rest of my drink for courage and pulled him close. In his terrible, but trendy Jean-Paul Gaultier navy striped shirt, he looked a little pathetic yet cute as a lamb in a room full of wolves. Last night, on the dance floor, he’d caught my wandering eye. I heard a thump and looked over at my bedroom door, but Maxime, the guy I’d taken home last night, was still asleep in my bed. I’d end up on my back, with my hands tucked under my armpits, listening to the unfamiliar sounds the stranger at my side made in his sleep. After two years of being single, sharing my bed with another warm body made me self-conscious. Since then, I hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. An hour ago, I’d woken up with a parched mouth and crept to the kitchen for a tall glass of water.
Sunday morning, I sat in my living room, watching Montreal’s local news on mute.
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