The mysterious Cyrus Pekoe.

I owe you guys part II next sunday.

ONE: SWALLOW SOLITUDE

I had just moved into a small apartment building just off Carré St-Louis. The proud occupant of a small, blank void of a studio apartment that smelled of wet socks and newspapers. Most of the other residents in the building were either very Francophone or, at least to me, invisible. Although this was the place I now called home, I felt completely alienated. I was sandwiched between a bearded fellow who called himself Castro and a young woman, about my age, named Leona. Castro was a graffiti artist and would often climb out onto the fire escape to smoke cigarettes and plan his next attack on city property. He would occasionally slip artwork under my door donning post-it note remarks about the government and anti-capitalism as housewarming gifts. Leona, on the other hand, was a real space case. According to the kids who lived downstairs, she spent all of her time in the Square reading romance novels and sighing deeply as birds flew by. After only a month of living at Number Fifteen, she had already gone through five break ups and the loss of her third cat. I was pretty certain that she thrived on the thought of misery and angst. Something I did not need in my life. The last resident of the top floor lived down the hall, right by the laundry chute. All I knew about him was that he was male, twenty-one and a ghost. I had never seen him and when I had asked Castro about him, he told me that he only ever spoke to the landlady for rent payment.

Since my arrival in Montreal, I had landed a job as a clerk at a small bookstore on St-Denis. The size of a small classroom, the boutique was stocked floor to ceiling, wall to wall with books. My work space was at the back of the store, in the closet. All day, I sat there tagging new arrivals and fixing the older novels’ spines, cramped, my feet resting on an old cardboard box below a rickety old desk. Perhaps this is where I picked up the smell of old newspapers. My boss was a very lonely old man who loved to strike up conversations with customers, although there were very few. He would offer them coffee from his old rusty machine, tell them about his antique cash register that he was no longer allowed to use by law and compliment the occasional child in the most awkward fashion. I pitied Giorgio—which was his name—he tried so hard to make friends, connections. Much like myself, only I could not leave my cave at the back of the store.

I had gotten into the habit of getting a coffee at the Corner Café on my way home from work. Giorgio would sometimes give me spare change he had in his pocket and call it my ‘candy money’. He loved to treat me like his estranged grandchild. The Corner Café did not have good coffee. In fact, it often tasted like the water you find leftover in the bottom of your sink after doing the dishes. Not that I’ve ever tasted that. The only reason I enjoyed getting coffee there almost every night, was the young barista that would serve me almost every time. Of course I was too shy to ever say a word to him. For almost a year now, all we’ve ever said to each other has been “one regular coffee please, with a lot of sugar”, to which he would usually respond “you got it”, followed by a quiet “thanks” on my behalf. Every time I would lay my eyes on him I felt as though the flesh would melt right off my face and stain my work shirt. I would hide my blushing cheeks with my scarf.

“The usual?” he said smiling, his hand on the regular sized take-out cup.

I could feel my hands tremble inside my pockets as I fumbled with my change. I thought of Giorgio and the bookstore. I did not want to end up alone in a mouldy bookstore.

“You’re nice.” I blurted out. I must have sounded ridiculous, like a crazy person with Turret’s. Visibly surprised, he snatched up a cup, smiling, and turned to his coffee machine. Now the flesh had melted off my face. It was rolling off my collar bone as I stood there, petrified, a dollar and seventy-eight cents in my closed fist.

“One seventy-eight please.” He said as he softly deposited the coffee on the counter, extra sugar packets on the lid. I dropped the change into his hand, hoping my fingertips would graze his palm. They did not.