Barbeque
At the beginning of spring, we decorated the fire escape behind our house with tea lights. We swept up the last of the rotting leaves, left over from Autumn, that the snow had kept hidden through out winter. Our bbq, old and bet out of shape, filled the neighbourhood with the smell of dripping sausages and faintly burned gas. The temperature had finally stuck above ten degrees and after being cooped up in our apartment for four cold months we wanted to breathe in as much fresh air as possible.
My memories of that night blur together and then separate into distinct snap shots like the coloured glass in a kaleidoscope: bottles of Labatt Bleu and Moosehead balanced on the concrete steps, a cake lit up with candles and glowing brighter than the lights spilling out from the kitchen, voices drunkenly singing out of chorus to Mike Snow. And, of course, all of us together, propped up on chairs or perched on the edge of knees and laps, reaching for arms to be pulled into photographs and yelling for more beer.
When it got too cold to be outside in the t-shirts we insisted on wearing, we moved inside to the squashy blue couches. Outside a lone raccoon picked through the scraps of our bbq and I watched him silently through a steamy patch on the window. The streets were quiet and empty and so we fell quieter too. In the crowded space of our lounge, we passed around the last of the wine and beers. We couldn’t all fit on the couches so some spread out on the floor, too drunk or too high to care discomfort. We were still drugged on Montreal and the prospect of a few more treasured months spent in the city.
I propped my feet onto the table and let the conversation of my friends gently lull me into something close to sleep. In another country, in another world we had lives waiting for us to return. But for now, there was wine that needed to be finished.
