Jeffrey S.
Yelp
The air was thick with humidity as Montreal experienced a scorching summer of unrelenting heat. The sun had gone down and if you positioned the windows of the apartment just right, you might sense the air moving, but only just so. The refrigerator hummed but held nothing of relief. Outside, the swarms of people still filled the streets as they do in this city, walking from place to place with simultaneous purpose of motion and nonchalance that seems befitting to the French whispers in the air.
On nights like this, with one of the great cities of the world, he couldn't stay in. With one fluid motion he picked up his phone, put on his shoes, and headed for the door. Yes, it was already very late and walking anywhere--especially down five flights of stairs and up the hill abutting Mont Royale would result in nothing but hot, sticky sweat. But ice cream was calling from Rue Saint-Denis and you don't say no.
Up Avenue du Parc, where the namesake feature held the only dark spot in the night -- the bright green trees and grass by day giving way to the blackness of nature -- and then a shortcut across the street to the small rectangular park still full of people sitting, socializing, smoking, and spending their time with each other despite the late hour.
By the time he made it to the ice cream shop, they were just minutes away from closing, but he knew instantly it was worth the trip. Pamplemousse rose. It had to be. Just saying it in French is fun, but one scoop of the pink grapefruit sorbet, next to a scoop of pear sorbet and the fruity, cold mixture had been made. There are ice creams, sorbets, and probably most famously, frozen custard, but the heart wanted pink grapefruit. It reminded him of her, for no other reason than it was sweet, delicious, and it was there in his hands at the height of summer.
He sat on a bench, savoring each refreshing, cold swallow. One by one he made friends with passers-by. "Your ice cream looks amazing!" one shouted. The young French girl, just in town for a few days, stopped to ask directions to a dance club be he just laughed. "I'm here for the ice cream," he said, "but good luck finding it," he added.
With the sounds of streets still full of people at midnight, and the sweat now drying on his neck (thanks in part to the breeze and the soothing effects of sorbet) he looked around properly. What a wonderful street. Lesser-celebrated than Saint-Laurent, but he liked that.
He could still taste the pink grapefruit kiss on his lips as he turned and headed slowly back to the apartment. It would be a long walk. This time, a slow, wistful walk where made notes about the neighborhood, in case, by some alignment of the planets, he was in this city again one day, and she was too. The darling restaurant called Darling, the incredible vintage dress shop; this neighborhood would be their playground.
