The Palace Crumbles

Rest

Quebec, Canada
$632.83
$113.36 (Canadian dollars)

You chug half of the bottled water that we just bought from the market, sighing in relief. "I've been so thirsty. Too much talking."

"Well, you're not finished yet." I take a smaller sip of my own, feeling the cool water travel down my dry throat. It feels great. "We need to figure out where to go from here."

"I want to be able to make enough money to fly to Europe. But we have nowhere near enough." You grimace. "We need to find some way to make some cash without anyone finding out who we are. Something underground."

"That would be a lot easier if we were still in America. Things aren't as sketchy here." I gesture to the pristine streets, not marred at all by the presence of litter or trampled chewing gum. "I think we mainly need to find a place to sleep. Money...well," I struggle to find a euphemism, "we've done a lot of hard work in our lifetimes." I stick my hand in my pocket. "What's a little more?"

You quickly get the hint, nodding. "It's the quickest way. We just have to figure out how to do it."

"Maybe I've got some kind of muscle memory. Maybe it'll come back to me."

"No way. You were too rich for that." You roll your eyes. "You're right. We need a motel."

We scan our surroundings, taking in all the people on the streets speaking French to each other, into their phones, reading French maps. I'm fishing around for something in my brain, trying to conjure my knowledge of French, when you turn to the nearest person and begin to speak.

"Excusez-moi, où se trouve le motel le plus proche, s'il vous plaît?" You ask, the words spilling out fluently, and you listen intently as the stranger responds.

"Merci. Merci beaucoup." You smile and give a friendly departing wave, and you set off once more as if it all never happened. "Alright. There's one up here. Older building, couple blocks up."

"What the hell was that?"

"It's called French. It's a language that's dated all the way back to the-"

"Since when did you speak French?"

"For all you know, I've always spoken French. Maybe you just can't remember."

I stare at you in disbelief, and your sarcastic resolve finally collapses as you smirk. "I'm joking. I don't think I ever told you even before all of this." You shrug. "I grew up in Louisiana. I spoke a lot of Creole, based in French, and then I just learned the base language."

"Wow. I wouldn't know that from looking at you."

"Southern boy," you quip with a fake twang. "Just try telling my father that my partner is a man."

"You don't have to worry about that anymore. His son is dead and gone. The men we were don't exist anymore."

"Not really. As long as we know each other, we'll never not be those people. There will always be someone there to remind us of our past lives."

"Are you alright with that?"

"If it means I get to be with you, I'm alright with anything."

We walk in a comfortable silence the rest of the way to the motel. You're right: it is an older building, yet it looks twice as pristine as anything I've seen in America. Thankfully, there are rooms open, but you tell me that you could only pay for one night for now.

"It's eighty a night. I only converted, like, a hundred to Canadian. I'm hoping we'll have some kind of plan by the time this night is up- that way we're not spending any more than we have to."