In the Tub, Fully Clothed

Every house party in Centre-Sud sounds the same after midnight. Someone playing guitar badly. Someone crying in the kitchen. Someone falling in love on the fire escape who will not be at breakfast.

I go to the bathroom because it's the only room with a lock.

You're already in it, sitting in the empty tub with your shoes on, going through the contents of the medicine cabinet, which you've lined up along the ledge.

"Le métro est fermé," you say, not looking up.

"I know."

I get in the other end. It's a small tub. We're at right angles.

Through the door: laughter, an argument, glass.

"In French we say faire la fête. To make the party."

"In English we have one."

"That's worse."

You hand me a bottle. We read the side effects out loud, taking turns. Drowsiness. Dizziness. Difficulty distinguishing between dreams and reality.

"That's just being awake," you say.

Somebody knocks. We don't answer. They knock again, then give up and use the one downstairs, which we both knew was there the whole time.

We're in there long enough that my foot goes dead. You put everything back in the cabinet in the order you found it, which I notice.

We come out separately. You leave. I stay till six and help stack the cans.