Page 9 of The Bar Next Door
One of these days, someone’s going to notice Madame Bovary’s furry little face stretched across my screen and give me hell for it—not that I’ve allowed myself to be the kind of boss people feel comfortable giving hell to, but the sight of a Yorkshire terrier with a pink bow on its head guarding my cell phone’s secrets would embolden even the most servile of employees.
To be clear,Ididn’t put the bow on her head. Madame Bovary was a gift from my mother during her last visit to Canada. Of courseMamancouldn’t just pick up a dog from the pound like a normal person—the Yorkie and her pedigree papers were delivered to my condo in a luxury SUV emblazoned with the breeder’s prestigious logo—but in many ways, I think she was just doing what a lot of parents do when they see their child is lonely: they find them a friend.
It’s just that the child in this case is thirty-two years old, and the question of whether I’mlonelyor not is constantly in debate. Although the fact that I refer to Madame Bovary as the ‘woman of the house’ and once let her vet spend the better part of an hour drafting a ‘dedicated doggie meal plan’ I now follow religiously is a heavy strike against me.
I really do need to change the damn lock screen.
I can feel Monroe watching me as I close up the property. Her suspicious gaze doesn’t waver as I follow her and her friend into the dingy place next door. It bores into me as we take our seats around a tacky cable spool table, and I can’t help thinking I’ve done something wrong.
My father always liked to quote a particular line from Victor Hugo: “Quand une femme vous parle, écoutez ce qu’elle dit avec ses yeux.”
When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes.
The woman across the table from me is sayingsomethingwith her eyes, but I have no idea what the message is, or if I’m even supposed to be reading it. She smiles when I speak, and her voice isn’t barbed with the same threat as her eyes, but if she’s trying to hide that she’s upset about something, she’s doing a terrible job of it.
What did I do?
It matters more than it should. I don’t just feel the passing guilt of common courtesy. She’s a stranger—a pretty stranger, yes, with lips that don’t quit and averydistracting necklace I can see dipping down under the neck of her shirt now that she’s taken her coat off—but I feel like I’vefailedat something by offending her, like I’ve lost a chance at winning something I didn’t know I wanted until I couldn’t have it anymore. Maybe it’s the confidence she carries like a sword at her side, tucked away with just the hint of the pommel declaring, “I’d much rather be nice, but I’ll pull this out in a second if you give me a reason.”
It’s a test, and I didn’t pass it.
Our server, a guy in his twenties whose flannel shirt makes him look like some sort of farmhand, strides over with a few plastic water glasses balanced on a tray.
“Monroe, a pleasure as always.” He places her glass down with a flourish, ice clinking against its sides. He smiles like his greeting is a joke, and I realize they must be familiar enough that he’s being facetiously formal.
“Roxanne. Haven’t seen you in a while. I hear you’re tying the knot. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Zach.”
He sets the second glass down as Roxanne waves her fingers at him, a diamond glinting below the knuckle of the third one.
The two of them are regulars here. I guess that would explain the passive aggressive eye contact and thinly veiled hostility being directed my way.
What did I call this place? A dump?
There’s no doubt that itisa dump. Taverne Toulouse is less of a bar and more of a cave, dark and drafty even with afternoon sun shining outside the windows. Those windows might be the problem. They’re not nearly big enough, and the garage door look makes the space feel like a teenager’s hangout instead of a proper bar. The tacky chandeliers and drawings of genitalia scribbled on the walls don’t help with the impression. Even the air is tinged with an adolescent mixture of sweat and stale beer.
If this is the kind of place that puts Monroe on the defensive, she can’t be as mature as she seems. At thirty-two, it’s obvious she’s younger than me, but I didn’t place her as young enough to still have a fondness for dingy student bars.
Someone ought to show her a proper night out, give her velvet and leather and wine that stains her lips garnet red as it slips past her tongue and down her throat.
She looks at me and glances away again. I feel my own throat flex as I swallow.
“And for the random dude I don’t know.”
My water glass gets deposited in front of me, and the server tucks the tray under his arm.
“Do you guys need menus, or...?”
“Grab one for the guy you don’t know,” Monroe instructs, one corner of her mouth lifting up.
He crosses over to the bar and comes back with a battered laminated menu. I thank him as I accept it and scan through both sides of the page.
“So,” I hazard, still staring down at the red letters in front of me, “I take it you two come here often?”
We’ve switched to English now. Despite clearly not being a native speaker, Monroe didn’t seem to have any trouble keeping up, but I’ve learned that’s how language in Montreal often is: a dotted line on the road conversations can weave across in a seamless manoeuvre that somehow rarely results in a crash. I remember listening in shock to two teenagers ahead of me in line at the Montreal airport when I first arrived all those years ago. They switched from English to French and back again three times in a sentence without any hesitation at all, like they didn’t even know they were doing it. I’ve still never quite mastered the trick.
I glance up to find Monroe and Roxanne exchanging a look.
