La Belle Province, 11 p.m.

The stool is cold and stays cold. There's a griddle behind the counter that hasn't been off since 1987 and a fridge that cycles every four minutes.

Two steamés, no fries. The onions come out of a plastic squeeze bottle you have to shake.

The girl at the register is new. She rings me twice and voids one and apologizes in French, and I say c'est correct, which is the only phrase I've ever gotten right on the first try.

The man at the window table is halfway through a poutine for two. He isn't waiting for anyone. He eats it in an order — cheese off the top first, then works the fries out from under, and by the end it's gravy and he tips the tray to get at it.

A couple in the corner booth are speaking French too low to follow. Her elbows are on the table. His hands are under it. They've been at whatever this is for a while. Nobody's crying and nobody's leaving.

The hot-dog is exactly what it is. The bun is steamed past the point of structure. There is no version of this that's good and I have been eating them since I was nineteen.

The man finishes and leaves the tray on the table. Cold comes in when the door swings. The couple stays.

I get a cream soda for the walk. The pink kind. It's terrible.