Four in the Morning

I walk when I can't sleep, which is most nights, and I've worn a route into the city without deciding to.

Café on Bernard where she said she was going. It's a bank vestibule now.

Apartment on Laurier where he stopped answering. Second floor, left. His name is still on the buzzer, which either means something or means the landlord is lazy.

The bench in the park where we agreed to try again, both of us knowing.

At four the streets belong to the shift workers, the other insomniacs, and the cats, who own the alleys outright and will tell you so. Everybody nods. Nobody stops.

There's a bench on Marie-Anne where I sat with someone whose name I've lost. I remember she spoke French when things were good and English when they weren't, and that the last night she spoke only English, and that I noticed at the time and said nothing.

By the time I'm home the sun is coming over the mountain and everything is the colour of a peach.

It's five and a half kilometres. My key is warm from my hand.