La Belle Province at 11pm

A Symphony of Solitude

The not so fast food restaurant is a symphony of solitude, a place where we come to be alone together, to eat hot-dogs and crumple napkins, to connect and disconnect, to be seen and unseen.

I sit at the counter, the stool cold beneath me, the hum of the refrigerator a steady heartbeat. The diner is quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a familiar coat, comforting, familiar.

The waitress is new, her hands still learning the rhythm of the diner, but her smile is warm, inviting. She asks me what I want, her voice a melody, a promise of connection.

A man is sitting at a table by the window, his face buried in a poutine for two. He's been here before, his movements confident, his choices deliberate. I wonder if he's ever shared that poutine.

A couple is sitting at a booth in the corner, their voices low, intimate. They're speaking in French, but their body language is universal. They lean in close, their hands almost touching, but not quite. There's a tension between them, a push and pull that's as old as time.

I think about how we're all just trying to connect, in whatever way we can. How food is a universal language, a way to bring people together, to share stories, to create memories.

The waitress brings fills the tray with junk food. I thank her, and she responds with a nod, a fleeting connection, a moment of shared humanity.

The man at the table by the window is gone now, his poutine now mostly cold fries, his story untold. The couple in the booth is still there, their conversation continuing, their hands still not quite touching.

I sip my creme soda and think about how people think about others. How we're all just trying to be seen, to be heard, to be understood.

The Belle Province is a symphony of solitude, a place where we come to be alone together, to eat hot-dog and crumple napkins.