Even Montreal Shuts Down at Night

Quinn McIlhone

After Labour Day

we watch the second week

of night matches

at the U.S. Open.

Twilight comes early,

the air has an edge

and my hitting partner

often stays for dinner.

We order out for pizza

and watch the tennis

still in our whites,

the guest nursing a pint

in an armchair,

you and I on the couch

with our feet up.

Often I drift away

and catch myself

daydreaming about her,

thrills pulsing through me

in waves of delight.

Because I am circumspect

about physical involvement

with my new friend,

I spend nights chitchatting

in her living room,

well-behaved but much aware

of her evident appeal.

I feel attraction

but am too cautious

to seek relief,

and become enamoured of her

through this restraint.

I no longer see her flaws –

they are there,

I was aware of them

before spending nights

entertained by her –

and she becomes the embodiment

of all things desirable.

I lead the way in the search

for a six-pack, but Chinatown

has shut down for the night.

She insists we can find beer

on the Main and we set off

through the cold, dark city.

Struggling with the zipper

on her leather jacket,

she mutters darkly

as we head up St. Laurent

through the red-light district,

so chilly the prostitutes

have quit work for the night.

To see her walking gamely

in the glow of neon,

titian hair blown back,

glance distracted

by the action in the clubs,

is to be hers for life.