Montréal, Canada. Katrine
07:45
Autumn in Montreal didn't settle in gently; it imposed itself like a rude guest, slapping passersby with gusts heavy with the river's dampness. Outside, on Boulevard Saint-Laurent, skeletal maples let their last leaves of burnished gold fall onto the wet asphalt.
Through the café's large bay window, I watched the frantic ballet of cars whose headlights pierced the morning gloom. It was the hour when the city seemed to drift aimlessly, a tide of dark coats and eyes fixed on invisible watches.
I lifted my cup to my lips. The espresso was still scalding, a bitter caress that contrasted with the chill creeping along the floor. My doctor had strictly forbidden caffeine, citing reasons I preferred to forget, but it was my drug, my anchor. Without that shot of liquid darkness, the morning was nothing but endless fog.
The crystal chime of the bell above the door broke the hum of the steam machine.
By reflex, I tucked away my melancholy. I put on the smile I had spent years sculpting: a mask of immaculate kindness, polished by use, capable of disarming even the grumpiest customer.
But the visitor was nothing like a difficult client.
It was the Regular.
He was a head taller than me, yet carried a fragility that made him seem younger, almost anachronistic in his long dark wool coat. His cheeks, whipped by the Plateau wind, bore a vivid pink that clashed with his pale complexion.
When he met my gaze, he flinched, his hazel eyes immediately fleeing to the chalkboard menu he already knew by heart.
For three months, this ritual had lasted. A stutter, a softly ordered coffee, and an excessive tip left on the counter like an offering on an altar.
A young man in love.
I wished I were blind not to see it. Love was a complication I could no longer afford. Still, I maintained my professional smile.
— An espresso, as usual?
He nodded with childlike vigor, the red in his cheeks now spreading to his ears. I turned to the machine. The grinder howled, the scent of roasted beans filling the space. I handed him the porcelain cup; our fingers brushed for a moment, and he took it as if it were fragile crystal.
When he handed over his card, he murmured a barely audible "yes" as I raised an eyebrow, asking whether to keep the usual tip. I was about to wish him a good day, politely dismissing him back to his solitude, when he broke the script.
— Are you… free tonight?
I froze. The puppy was finally stepping out of hiding?
— Yes, why? I replied, genuinely curious.
His eyes lit up with hope that was almost painful to witness. He moistened his dry lips, searching for his words in a ragged breath.
— It's just that… my club is organizing an exhibition about sports. I'd really like to invite you.It's just that… my club is organizing an exhibition about sports. I'd really like to invite you.
He stared at his boots, shoulders hunched, waiting for the axe to fall. I studied him. He was cute, possessed of a purity that had no place in this district of concrete and pretense.
But it was my last day, after all…
Tomorrow, I would no longer be the waitress with the perfect smile. I would be nothing to him.
— Give me your phone, I said suddenly.
He looked up, brows knitted in confusion, blinking as if waking from a dream. A real smile, this time, curved my lips.
— How do you expect us to meet if we don't exchange contacts?
Panicked and thrilled, he rummaged through his coat pockets and pulled out a phone—no lock screen.
Careless. Or transparent?
I quickly typed in my name and number before handing it back. He stared at the screen, spelling out the name he had just discovered under his breath:
— Katrine…
— And you?
— Cody, he murmured, pressing the phone to his lips as if it held a sacred secret.
I nodded and drained the rest of my espresso, now cold and viscous.
— See you tonight, Cody.
— S-see you tonight!
He dashed toward the exit, nearly tripping over the threshold. I watched him disappear into the Montreal gray. I sighed, discreetly pulled a small vial from my apron, and swallowed a pill without water. A farewell gift, a final pocket of lightness before reality reclaimed its rights.
Another bell rang. The mask slid back into place.
— Hello, what can I get you?
★★★★★
The wind had risen, turning the Plateau streets into corridors of icy drafts. I pulled up the collar of my trench coat, feeling Montreal's dampness seep beneath my clothes. At this hour, the city changed faces: offices emptied, bars began to rumble, neon signs reflected in puddles like electric ink stains.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A message from Cody. A GPS pin and an "Ican't wait to see you" that reeked of nervousness.
I hesitated for a moment on the sidewalk of Avenue du Mont-Royal. What was I doing there? I had spent the day feigning courtesy behind a counter, and now I was about to extend the performance. But there had been something in his eyes that morning that had stopped me from saying no. A kind of raw goodness I no longer possessed.
The exhibition was held in a renovated former warehouse. As I stepped inside, the smell of floor wax and stale coffee hit me. Photos of athletes in full exertion saturated the white walls.
I spotted him immediately.
He no longer wore his coat, but an oversized wool sweater that made him look like a student deep in exam season. He was pacing in front of the entrance, wringing his hands. When he saw me, his face crumpled, shifting from anxiety to almost blinding joy.
— Katrine! You… you came.
— I keep my word, Cody, I replied with a small sideways smile.
He approached awkwardly, unsure whether to shake my hand or keep his distance. His perfume smelled of soap and fresh air—a striking contrast to the room's staleness.
— My club organized everything, he explained, gesturing to the canvases. We wanted to show the beauty of movement, perseverance…
He spoke with a passion that almost made me envious. He saw poetry where I saw only sweat and discipline. I listened halfway, observing instead how his eyes came alive.
He was young, Cody.
Not just in age, but in spirit. He hadn't yet learned to distrust smiles that were too perfect.
— And that one? I asked, pointing to a black-and-white painting of a solitary runner under the rain.
He stopped short, his gaze sinking into the image.
— It's my favorite. It's the moment when you want to give up, but you keep going anyway. Just because you have no other choice but to move forward.
A pang tightened my chest. I slipped my hand into my pocket, brushing against my medication tube. Move forward. That was exactly what I was trying to do, even if I no longer knew toward what.
— It's very beautiful, I murmured, and for the first time that day, my smile held nothing commercial.
The warehouse had turned into a buzzing furnace. Music, bursts of laughter, and the clinking of glasses created a din that pressed against my temples. Cody, unexpectedly, moved through the crowd with disarming ease. No longer the trembling "puppy" from behind the counter, he greeted, smiled, conversed.
Earlier, he had confessed that sports and painting were only hobbies. He was a student in entrepreneurship—I had struggled to believe it.
But now, watching him so at ease, I wasn't surprised.
With a face like that and such charisma, popularity wasn't an option; it was a consequence.
I slipped into a shadowed corner, back against the cold wall, observing this gilded second-year youth who seemed never to have known the end of the month. Discomfort crawled along my spine. I didn't belong in this décor of gallery openings and certainties.
Suddenly, Cody cut through the crowd. He crouched in front of me, breaking my bubble of isolation. His gaze was blurred, his ears flushed scarlet.
— If you don't feel well, we can leave, he murmured, his voice trembling with almost too-tender concern.
— And you? I asked softly. It's your night, after all.
He offered me an affectionate smile, slightly hazy from alcohol or emotion.
— I don't like crowded places, Katrine. I'm here for you.
A shiver ran through me. I grabbed his arm and led him toward the exit before the warehouse's saturated air could finish suffocating us. Outside, Montreal's cold struck us like an icy shower. If Cody had drunk too much, it was better to get him somewhere safe. I knew too well the drift of evenings that began like festivals and ended in the bitterness of excess.
In the taxi carrying us away, silence settled in, broken only by the engine's purr. Cody had fallen asleep against the window. I retrieved his phone—still without a passcode, that carelessness irritated me as much as it touched me—to look for emergency information.
The address froze me in place.
He lived in an upscale residential neighborhood, the exact opposite of the rundown café where I served espressos. This kid crossed the city every morning, braving traffic and gray skies, just to see me?
I turned my head toward him. His long lashes trembled against his cheekbones. In an impulse I couldn't suppress, I lightly pinched his cheek. He groaned softly in his sleep, an adorable sound of protest that made me chuckle despite myself. How long could such innocence survive reality?
The taxi finally stopped before a monumental gate. I paid the fare, my heart heavy. Behind the wrought-iron bars rose a gigantic villa, a fortress of stone and glass that screamed its belonging to another social class.
He's not a puppy, I thought, biting my lip until I tasted blood. He's a crown prince.
— The code, Cody. Give me the code.
He mumbled a string of numbers that I entered on the keypad. The metallic click echoed through the deserted street. We crossed the threshold, and the gate closed behind us with a final sound, locking us both inside his world of privilege.