Page 9 of Laced in Longing

Outside, the January wind slashes at exposed skin like tiny knives. I pull my coat tighter around me, burying my chin in my scarf. The sidewalks are busy with other office workers migrating to various happy hours and dinners, everyone hunched against the cold.

The bar is only a block away, tucked into the first floor of an older building in the business district. A warm glow spills from its windows, promising shelter from the brutal winter air. The sign above the door features a dark wood with bright letters, each capitalized as if to scream its presence to passersby.

Inside, the space is a study in contrasts—modern light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, sleek metal barstools resting next to tables made of reclaimed wood. The noise level sits just below uncomfortable, a steady hum of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

Nadia leads us to a table in the corner that’s been reserved, and we shed our winter layers before arranging ourselves around it. I end up sandwiched between Chris and Zahra, the table small enough that our elbows brush whenever we move. I’m going to puke.

A server appears almost immediately, tablet in hand, ready to take drink orders.

“First round’s on my department,” Chris announces. “End-of-month targets were hit.”

Everyone cheers except me. I missed that memo—if it ever existed—but I’m not about to turn down a free drink. When it’s my turn to order, I scan the cocktail list quickly before picking something called a Montréal Mule—gin, ginger beer, and lime juice. Might as well try something local.

As the server departs, the others continue paused conversations and I catch fragments about weekend plans and a new Thai restaurant someone tried. Chris complains about a client who calls every hour for updates. Normal people talking about normal things, the mundane details of lives that have roots and connections.

My drink arrives in a copper mug, condensation beading on the side. The first sip offers a pleasant burn as the acidity of lime cuts through the bite of the alcohol and ginger. Not bad.

“So, Maven, what brought you to Montréal?” Zahra asks, now facing me with what appears to be genuine interest.

I grip my mug tighter, the cold metal stinging my palm. “Just needed a change,” I say, the practiced line falling from my tongue.

“From Boston? That’s not much of a change,” Tyler jokes. “Still cold as balls.”

A few chuckles ripple around the table. I allow my lips to twitch in what might pass for a smile.

“Family here?” Mei asks, sipping something pink and frothy.

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, and I sip my drink again to cover the awkwardness. “Just me.”

There’s a slight pause, the kind that happens when people sense there’s more to the story but are too polite to press. Chris fills it with a question about the difference in tax codes between the US and Canada, directing it at Nadia, who launches into an explanation so technical my eyes glaze over.

The alcohol won’t settle fast enough. I drain half my drink in one go, savoring the burn that travels down my throat and blooms in my chest. Maybe if I get drunk enough, I’ll stop feeling like I’m performing humanity rather than experiencing it.

“What about you? Any family in the States?” Chris directs his attention back to me, persistent in his attempt to include me in the conversation.

I shake my head. “No one.” The truth slips out before I dress it up in something more palatable. “Foster care,” I add, as if that explains everything.

Another painful pause, this one filled with the kind of pity I’ve spent my life avoiding. It flashes between their exchanged glances as the skin softens around their eyes.

“That must have been tough,” Nadia replies in a soft tone, her perfect eyebrows drawing together.

I shrug, already regretting having shared even this much. “It was what it was.”

The table falls silent for a moment before Tyler, bless his heart, changes the subject to something about a system upgrade happening over the weekend that will affect everyone’s access. The tension dissipates as complaints about IT protocols take over.

By the time I finish my first drink, my body slightly disconnects from my mind—I’m not drunk, just not as sharp around the edges. The noise of the bar seems both louder and less grating, and the constant press of Zahra’s arm against mine no longer makes my skin sizzle quite as much.

The server returns for a second round, and I order the same, thinking perhaps this night won’t be as unbearable as I’d feared. Maybe I can do this—this normal-person ritual of drinks after work.

But as my second drink arrives, something shifts in my gut. A heaviness, like a stone sinking through water, embeds in my stomach. The lime suddenly tastes cloying, too tart against the back of my throat. The ginger becomes unpleasant.

The bar’s temperature rises ten degrees at once, and sweat beads along my hairline and upper lip, my insides twisting. The lights overhead grow too bright, each one sending needles into my eyes when I glance up.

“You okay?” Chris asks, noticing my sudden stillness.

I nod in answer, not trusting my voice. But I’m not okay. My body is rejecting this. Every cell screams for solitude, for the quiet of my apartment and the calm that only appears when I’m alone.

No, not alone. When I’m dreaming.