Page 17 of Your Echo
5Everything is Alright || The Glorious Sons
ACE
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’
I almost grabbed her when she said it. For a moment, I couldn’t think of anything but the knee-jerk reaction to reach out and cup the side of her face, demanding she repeat those words for me. It took everything I had to stay pressed up against the wall.
Hearing Stéphanie quote ‘The Raven’ was like watching a cat speak or seeing a statue move out of the corner of your eye—something so unexpected it fills you with the urge to get closer, to inspect, to convince yourself that what you just witnessed was real.
I can’t justify the sensation at all; it’s a popular poem. People have reacted to my tattoo the exact same way before. Hell, it’s the first thing the artist said when I brought up the idea. Still, something about the ominous prophecy of those dark, depressing words being delivered by her pink and playful lips struck me in a way the poem had never done on its own before.
She’s hunched over in the entryway now, lacing on a pair of faded pink Keds after dropping the knitted pair of slippers you’re supposed to wear here into the basket by the door. I stand there in just my socks. No way in hell was I going to put a pair of fucking knitted slippers on.
I lied to her. Partially. Ididthink tonight’s presentation would at the very least turn out to be amusing, but the real reason I came to this thing was the chance of seeing her. Call it desperate or inappropriate—or inappropriately desperate—but I’ve never been one to avoid jumping down the rabbit hole to chase after inspiration. If there’s any word to describe what the memory of this girl has become to me, it’s that.
Inspiration.
Don’t get me wrong; I’d be on her in a heartbeat given half the chance, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here because she’s the first page of a story, and I want to read the rest.
“You just gonna stand there all night?”
Her question pulls me back to reality.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Okay, then.” She throws a backpack over her shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”
There’s a blast of warm air from the July night outside, and then she’s gone.
I pull my shoes on and head out after her. She’s just about to turn the street corner, blonde hair spilling over her backpack and catching the glow of the streetlight.
“Hey!” I call. “Hey, Stéphanie!”
I can’t help adding an extra heavy accent to her name. She pauses with a hand on her hip, glaring at me.
“I’m going this way too,” I tell her, as I jog up the few metres between us. “You mind if we walk together?”
Her hand stays on her hip. “I’m a big girl. I don’t need a man in skinny jeans to walk me home at night.”
“Maybe I was asking because I needyouto walkme.” I glance up and down the street and drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m scared of the dark.”
“You have too many creepy tattoos for me to believe you’re scared of monsters.”
I step closer. “Maybe I’m scared that Iamthe monster.”
A toss of those blonde waves. “Now you’re just getting philosophical.”
She starts walking again, and I fall into step beside her. Most of the houses on the street have their windows wide open to catch the evening breeze. Every now and then, we’ll pass by a strain of music, muffled notes passing into the road through shifting curtains. I hear bottles clinking and then several voices start singing along to Sherbrooke Station’s big single, ‘Sofia.’
I grin and glance at Stéphanie. She rolls her eyes.
“You live nearby?” I ask, as we turn onto Rue Rachel, heading down towards the hub of Boulevard Saint-Laurent.
“Just a bit before Saint Lau,” she answers, the ghost of an accent in her voice when she says the street name.
“Convenient,” I comment. She gives me a confused look and I elaborate. “For going out.”
“I don’t drink, so mostly it’s just loud and annoying.”
