The afternoon was a crystal blue promise made up of silver cement and yellow skies.
I rode my Ducati down Saint-Denis Street, squeezing through midday traffic, my mind drawing up a million different possible scenarios.
Would Nick be there? What would he say? Would he touch me?
Could I stand it if he did?
Before I knew it, I’d reached Saint-Paul Street. I slipped the bike between a Mercedes and a BMW and climbed off. The Old Port. Still pretentious.
It had been awhile since I’d walked down its cobblestone streets, and as I passed art galleries, quaint boutique-hotels, and bistros packed with power-eaters, I smiled to myself. Of all the places to open a restaurant, Nick had to pick the trendiest, most sought-after commercial artery in Montreal. Nothing here was mediocre. Especially not
