The New Sense

Monday, April 01, 2002

How long have I been keeping a diary? Seven, eight years? Yesterday I was beginning to wonder if it’s worth the effort. Writing's a good thing, but you have to have something to write about. I was thinking maybe I should just take the summer off. Trouble is, I know people, like Phil, who took the summer off about ten years ago. That's the trouble with Montreal — it's too easy to have fun.
But today the guy came back into Olga's. Again it was the end of the morning. He was wearing exactly the same clothes (black) but looked tireder (why does that word look so weird?) than the first time. Yup, he's really cute. He smiled at me and sat at the bar, same place, two down from Olga. This time no-one else was in the bar.
I try to be cool, but show that I remember him. "No stimulants, right?" He smiles and nods. "Guinness," he says, and pulls over a section of the newspaper Olga was reading. "May I?" he says, and I think, "Very polite."
While the first half of his Guinness is settling I go into the kitchen and check myself out in the grill door. Okay. I go back and finish the pour. He puts down the paper, looking kind of relieved. "There you go," I say. "Breakfast?" He smiles gain. Fuck, he's cute. He says something about how in Germany they consider a pint of beer to be the nutritional equivalent of a slice of bread. I make some joke about having eaten a whole loaf on Saturday, then realise I sound like a total lush. He does a cheers with his glass, which Olga joins in, and then takes a sip. For a good four or five seconds he leaves the mousse (what's that in real English? The head?) on his upper lip. He's a couple of days unshaven, and the creamy mousse just stays there. He licks it off. Not in a sleazy-flirty way, just licks it off, and I feel a little tingle in my stomach (or was it between my legs?) The frenzy is starting…

The brewery truck pulls up, and then Olga does something I've never seen her do before. She gets up and starts dealing with it — opening the cellar door, taking the order sheets. I probably stood with my mouth open looking like an idiot for a while. She's a sly one. Now I'm alone at the bar with the guy. He's not saying much, so I ask him his name. "B—," he says, and holds out his hand. I shake it and say my name. His hand is warm. Another tingle. Definitely between the legs.
"You live around here?" I ask him, sounding boring as hell. He hesitates, then just goes, "Uh-huh." Oh boy, I think — cute but dumb. Then the strangest thing happens. Olga's standing with the brewery guy at the end of the bar, checking the order sheet. He goes, "Four IPA's, two oatmeal stouts and three rousses." She takes the clipboard from him to sign, but B— says, "Is that barrels?" She says, "What?" and he says, "Is that the number of barrels they just delivered?" She says yes and signs the sheet. I'm wondering what the hell he cares about this for, when he says, "I think you'll find there were only eight barrels delivered, so there's a mistake somewhere."
Olga looks at him. The delivery guy says he thinks it's right, but he'll go down and check. He comes back from the cellar a minute later with a puzzled look on his face. There were only eight barrels delivered. He apologises profusely, but Olga and I just stare at B—. The guy goes to get the missing barrel and Olga sits back down at the bar. "How did you know there were only eight?" she asks, lighting a smoke. He smiles the exact same smile he did when he first walked into the bar last week — kind of like he has a private joke. I just stare at him.
He takes a slow sip of beer, then shrugs a little. "It's just a trick," he says. "What kind of trick?" asks Olga, while I was probably staring at him like I was thirteen years old and he was the fifteen year-old with the long hair, strumming at the campfire.
"You can call it my beer sense."
"I guess you counted the clanking as each one came off the truck," says Olga.
"That's right," he replies, though I can tell he's not telling the truth. I'm pretty sure Olga can too, but she just takes a puff and waves at the brewery guy as he leaves. She asks me to go down to the cellar and lock the door. When I get back she's on her way out. She mumbles something about going to see someone and heads up the road towards the Fly-By-Night.
B— looks up from his beer and says, "She really cares about you." When I ask him why he thinks so, he just says that he can tell. Suddenly I feel a bit shy being alone with him and make myself a cappuccino to kill some time. He asks me what I 'do' so I tell him about the degree and society's terrible prejudice against employing art historians. He laughs. He's got a great laugh. Of course. Just warm and natural. I tell him about taking the summer off from 'real work' to have fun and save up some money, which isn't really happening (the money part). I ask him what he does and he says he's a photographer. I ask him where he studied, and he vaguely answers, "Out west."
A guy I've never seen before came in at that point. I was disappointed, though it was silly to feel like that. The guy sat down at the table under the clock and ordered a coffee. When I got back behind the bar B— leaned over and asked me in a whisper if I knew the guy. I got a whiff of breath and hair gel. He's obviously sleeping on someone's couch. I still feel like kissing him.
I told him I'd never seen the guy with the coffee before and asked why he wanted to know. He took a big gulp of beer and shook his head, saying, "Never mind," then grabbed his scarf (the only real winter clothing I've seen him with), said, "See you!" and left.
I was kind of stunned. There we were, getting on fine, some stranger comes in and he's off.

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posted by Sara