jeremyRose

Sunset sets me free from the flames that I can’t convince out of my hair. This place never changes. A year since my toes touched this stone but it feels like yesterday. A bright, incendiary ball is hovering over my sister’s head but this time I’m curiously unworried. It’s only the sun, though. Somehow this way it seems normal.

A hand on my shoulder shakes me free from myself, makes me jump – almost into a bed and breakfast that I would have left alone otherwise. The poor stones. I calm myself with the fact that it’s only Amy pulling me back to reality. I come close to taking another dive at the building when I realize it’s someone else’s hand.

It takes me even longer to realize that it’s actually attached to a person, who is speaking to me. Weird only goes so far when you’re half dreaming, after this many hours of anti-sleep.

Firstly, there’s a hand on my shoulder. Secondly, it’s attached to an Amazon goddess look-alike. She speaks to me in French, asking me directions. I’ve only been off of the plane a mere four hours but her country accent gives her away as thinking I’m a local. As is my typical approach to such situations, I ignore the giant, pink elephant on my lap and lead her down the street.

“C’est juste par là.”

Another satisfied customer. Who needs locals? I turn around and walk into a lamppost. I answer my own question – me.

My memory chopped off everything before this morning. Must check at the lost-and-found when I get back to the airport. As it is, though, Amy’s laughing at me for the first time I can remember. Even my nose thinks it was worth it.

Just up from the waterfront, we step into what seems to be a store completely dedicated to handmade wooden crafts. This is new. Thought this was an art gallery. I guess wood sells better in a post-paper world. Amy buys a paperweight for my grandmother – so much for post-paper.

I had no idea there were this many artists working by the docks. Talent is blowing in the wind. Now, if we could just get some of that talent-filled wind to move, the thirty-plus temperature might not be so noticeable. As it is, though, I can drink in the warmth and laugh at the overheated Québécois. You’d think they’d be used to it by now. Ha.

One set of pictures catches my attention. Not to mention the artist, who is arrived directly from one of those typically objectifying films against which feminists carry placards. I can’t tell if the pictures are glowing or if it’s just her face. No matter.

I can tell that Amy’s just as intrigued by the style as I am. I hand Angélique (yes, damnit, I asked) the folded note and push my sister in the direction of the chair, while I take her outstretched glasses and lean on the railing. Yes, in trying to be nonchalant, I am sure to balance myself precariously above the water.

At least it’s cleaner than St John’s in that respect, I can’t help but thinking, steadying myself against what seems to be an imminent fall.

Amy looks blind. Her eyes are burning and I can almost taste it from here. Who takes his sister downtown to get her portrait painted on a day like this? A better question is how can she be laughing, even without her glasses. Maybe she knows I’m debating asking out the artist.

I don’t. Would be sketchy in the least.

We go in search of a little café that I know on the edge of old downtown.

This is a happy place; feels free until I get lost. Ok, the road was here but I went and turned around and it ran away on me. Someone seems to have stolen my cobblestones.

“Yes, Amy, I know where I’m going.”

Then I look up innocently and try to hide at least the pointy ends of my metaphysical horns. Ah yes, I’ll get her some crepes. Ice cream solves everything.