De L'Église, 2 a.m.

You're buying cigarettes you told two people you'd quit. I'm buying milk I already have.

The clerk watches us both and says nothing. He has the face of a man who stopped ranking the crises that come through this door a long time ago.

You count out change in French and apologize in English. I read the front of the Journal like it's news to me.

"Rough night?"

"Rough life." Then you laugh, to turn it into a joke, and neither of us is convinced.

We end up on the step, passing the pack back and forth. You tell me the apartment sounds wrong now. Not empty — wrong. The fridge is louder. You can hear the neighbours' TV, which you never could before, and you can't work out whether that's the apartment or you.

I tell you I walk at night. That's the whole thing. I walk, and it feels like getting somewhere.

A drunk comes up De L'Église doing Leloup, every note wrong, fully committed. We clap. He bows and keeps going.

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Probably."

I bought milk four nights that week. I poured most of it out.