Page 60 of Your Rhythm
He waves his fork at me and speaks in a condescending tone. “You like sugary coffee drinks. I like fries. We all have our vices, Kay.”
I just sit and stare as he polishes off another quarter of the meal.
“Dig in,” he prompts. “You can have the rest if you want.”
I shake my head, taking a sip of the iced tea I ordered. “You seem like you’ll appreciate it more than I will.”
He doesn’t waste any time finishing last few bites.
“You gonna lick the paper too?”
“I was trying to be polite, but since you mentioned it...”
He dips his pinkie into the basket and coats it in gravy before bringing it up to his mouth.
“Wow. So sexy.”
He winks. “You love it.”
We don’t stick around for much longer after that. Matt offers to walk me back home on his way to the metro station. Outside, he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks up at the overcast sky.
“I’m glad you invited me over tonight.”
I glance up at the clouds as well. All the light pollution gives the sky a dusky orange glow, but the moon still shines bright and pure behind a layer of clouds.
“Yeah,” I admit, “me too.”
We don’t kiss at the door to my building. Instead, we just stand and stare at each other for a moment, searching for something we couldn’t find in the sky. Matt nods a goodnight and turns to leave.
Back in my room, I fight the urge to calculate how many hours there are before I need to get up for work and pull out my laptop instead. I open up a new document and contemplate the blinking cursor for a few seconds before my fingers start flying over the keys.
Marie-France asked for a sample of my Sherbrooke Station story, now that I’ve got my research well underway, and I’ve put it off for as long as possible. It’s not just an impending deadline that’s got me motivated tonight, though; all the words and phrases that have been drifting through my mind these past few weeks seem to have come to a head, gathering into a storm cloud that demands to be unleashed.
I write until my eyes are on fire, until I’m nodding over my screen and realize I’ve been typing the same sentence over and over again for the past two minutes. I summon the effort to click ‘save’ and put the computer away before collapsing onto my bed.
* * *
Marie-France callsme into her office at ten the next morning. Her jaw is set in a line that looks even sterner than usual, and I can tell whatever news she’s got for me isn’t good.
“Assis-toi, Kay,” she orders, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. “I read your sample this morning.”
I brace myself for criticism.
“You English have a word for this,” she continues, waving hand at her computer screen. “It’s called fluff.”
Ouch.
I must do a bad job of hiding how shot down I am because Marie-France pauses to rub her eyes and sigh.
“It’s notbad, Kay. You write well. It’s just not what we need. It’s too...moelleux. Too tame. It won’t stir anything up.”
“I know you wanted controversy,” I explain, “but to be honest, I don’t think thereismuch controversy. They’re a good band. People like their music. I can write about that, but if we need some kind of earth-shattering exposé, I don’t think we’re going to find it here.”
“If you can’t find it, you can make it.”
I can’t help raising my eyebrows at that.
“With respect, Marie-France, I’m a journalist, not a reality TV show producer.”
