I got up; stood in front of the window while she exhaled smoke on my back. Standing out there in the freezing cold, looking up at her building… her friend shivered in the darkness.
“I wish he’d just go away,” she sighed, lighting another cigarette.
We split at dawn.
I had her number scrawled on the torn corner of a phonebook page, folded and tucked in the front pocket of my favorite jeans.
It stayed there all day.
It stayed there when we stopped to buy a goldfish at the pharmacy.
It stayed there when we ate Indian food at that place on
Bay Street. A real spread; chicken masala, aloo matar,
lamb korma, naan, raita and chai.
I felt that little scrap of paper in my pocket.
It was still there when I took my friends to the train station that night.
Later, finally, I pulled it from my pocket; called her from a booth in the hotel lobby.
My toes felt frozen in my boots; the wool of my socks itched. I hummed softly while the phone rang on the other end….