lily hills white

l'homme damné

le québécois.

he's the epitome of the good guy— speaks highly of his maman, plays stick to puck with his papa, dances and pirouettes to french canadian folk music in the back herb garden with his sœur.

he summers in gaspésie by the saint-laurent river, swimming far from the bay and the weeping willows and the whispering birches. i still imagine him there, cerulean eyes empathy-wide under a random day in june.

françois knows everything i don't.

he knows the kids from daycare and primary school. he knows these streets and québec christmases of sheets and sheets of white. he knows of the best dépanneurs (corner stores and small grocers) around and the ones that won't card us at the tender age of fourteen and sixteen.

he knows settling, and how to let the paint dry (meanwhile i can't even let my nail polish settle before it smudges!) he tells me to let my cuts scab over, both the ones on my flesh (self-inflicted!) and my heart (self-inflicted!).

he's youth and empathy, and we're merely friends who sled down the ribonned hill of his neighbourhood park, watching as the litany of piled flakes swallow us and our environs.

my artist fingers shouldn't quake in anticipation to touch him, but they do, they always do.

his laughter is art set on fire. it's noël every day. it's swimming far from the bay, and the taste of beer on my adolescent taste buds who force back faces and faces of disgust.

nevertheless, it's intoxicating, and i'm so out of it i can't even tell if it's from the wind in my visage as we leave snow tracks in our path, the bitter fuzzy feeling of alcohol, or him.

françois says he knows he loves me, and my young, cold heart wants to believe him. it really, really does.

so i kiss him under my best friend and i's bridge, the one that loiters between the two islands, and i watch as our friendship dissolves into crimson cheeks, stolen kisses, sweaty hand holds, and whispering birch secrets.

and for a long time it's perfect.

it really, really is.

until it isn't.

i run past the weeping willow and swim out of the bay, crying all the way (knowing fucking well i shouldn't be the one crying!). it's a random day in june.

and françois says to me (now aware i'm what was dragging him down as he swam in the saint-laurent river all summer long!), eyes empathy-wide, "i know you don't love me. i'm not sure you ever did."