My Dear Emma

Captain’s Log — 9:54AM
We have crossed the Howard Johnson
Miles above civilization
Snow plates the ground like plates
We just passed some log cabins
Wilbur is being a bitch about his log cabin
Storm clouds ahead
Lots of cars, no souls

Captain’s Log — 2:30PM
We’re across the border
We ran into some other white boys at the crossing
They told us about a Wendy’s they went to that had a fireplace
It made their day

There is a ledge under a window of a hotel in Montreal where I sit for a few hours looking at people walking. I’m trying to forget about you, so they don’t remind me of you or us or anything. The guys want to take me to a casino, or rather, the guys want to go to a casino, and I am there too. Here we are men, and we can do those things. I have on my beard. I don’t want to leave the ledge. Only a few people pass under the window — Montreal in Winter, okay — which makes each one that walks by a little more special, even if I can’t make out anyone’s features, aside from the color of their shirt. Most of the shirts are red, but that might just be a Canadian thing.
Some people on trips make schedules, and I usually don’t like those people. Wilbur is talking about our schedule.
“If we make it to the casino by eight, we’ll have enough time to play some poker, do whatever we want, and still be back by eleven. That way we can get some sleep for tomorrow when we climb to the top of the Mont. Sound good to everyone?” I’m not sure I’ve said a word the whole trip up to this point and I don’t break the streak now.
“Get off that,” Del says. “Let’s get there at eleven and go until we’re bored.”
“Does the casino close?” Alex asks. None of us knows, and none of us have good internet in the room, so we shrug and decide on arriving at eleven.
The guys go for coffee and leave me on the ledge. I don’t drink coffee; I don’t do much.

Captain’s Log — 5:10PM
Notes concerning the arrival:
It appears everyone here speaks French
What a find
Also, Wilbur ran like six stop signs on the way in
Someone should tell him what Arrêt means
Someone should tell me what Arrêt means

The guys get back and tell me that the coffee girl is really cute, that I should meet her. They send me down to order a cup.
The shop is empty, except for the girl. She strikes me as someone much older and much younger than me. She could be in her late twenties; she could be in high school. Her hair is blonde and braided. Small mouth. Small body.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hi.” French accent. Montreal accent? An accent.
“I would like a cup of coffee.”
“What kind?”
“There are different kinds?” I ask. She laughs. Oh boy. “Black is fine.”
I sit at one of the empty tables and think about the rest of my life. It wouldn’t work out between me and the coffee girl. Unless I stayed in Montreal. She would never ask that of me. We’d spoken once, I don’t even know her name, things don’t work that way. How nice if they did, though. The coffee cup lands in front of me.
“Anything else?” She asks. Head tilted down, eyes up. Clearly experienced in the service industry.
“Sit with me,” I say. It is supposed to be a question, but it doesn’t come out that way. She sits.
“Name?” She asks.
“My friends call me Ethan. Everyone does actually.” That one always gets a little chuckle. “And yourself?”
“Emma,” she says. “But my friends call me Em.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I sip the coffee and remember why I don’t drink coffee.
“So, Ethan, what do you do?” It takes me a moment to figure out, through her accent, that she’d said my name. I like the sound.
“Go to school, mostly. At Syracuse, in New York.” She nods. A boring answer. “What do you do?” I ask. She gestures to the shop around us. “Oh. Right.” She laughs into her hand. Over her wrist, her sleeve is pulled up so far that it puffs up when her laugh hits it. It really is that simple, sometimes. “When do you get off work?”

Captain’s Log — 12:30AM
Lost 40 Canadian $
Tommy won 380$ on slots
Drinks on Tommy
Wilbur and Del lost at poker immediately
Alex hung on as long as he could, still crumbled
Cold waiting for Uber

I meet Emma outside the coffee shop at one in the morning. She’s undone the braids in her hair, so it falls across her shoulders, catching light from the moon and reflecting it across the coat she has over her uniform. I’m in four layers of sweaters and coats, I have no idea how she manages with just the jacket.
Emma takes a minute to close up the shop. It doubles as a restaurant, she explains, which is why it’s open so late. The key jams in the lock and she apologizes for the wait as she tries to turn the key. She exhales onto the lock trying to heat it up, and I laugh, which makes her pout.
“You help,” she says, and pushes my head towards the lock. Up close, it looks almost frozen over, little crystals of ice around the mechanism. I breathe onto it with her, our faces pressed together. Her cheek is cold pressed against mine. It makes me realize how warm I am. Somehow, we are both laughing. I pull the key and it slides out.
“Walk you home?” I ask.
“Why not your room? I want to see how the tourists live.”
“I live in a small room with four other guys.”
“Walk me home,” she says.

As we walk, she laughs at me slipping and sliding across the frozen over sidewalk. She lets me hold onto her to balance myself. “It’s like watching a baby deer learn how to walk,” she says, right before I fall into a mound of snow, accidentally pulling her down with me, on top of me. “Pire qu’une biche,” she says, laughing in exhaled breathes against my chest. There’s a throbbing pain in my back and I pretend it stops when she kisses me.
Her apartment isn’t far, and it isn’t clean. Clothes are strewn about with aged food on every table. She apologizes for the mess. She wasn’t expecting company today.
“I hope it isn’t a problem,” she says. “If you wanted to come back tomorrow…”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I say.
“Touriste,” she says.
“Oui,” I say.

Captain’s Log — 4:50AM
My dear Emma
The streets of Montreal are pretty at night
What a beautiful place this would be to die
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen trees like this
Trees and ice and snow — a place fairies might have lived
Where nothing can hide
Nothing but miles behind and miles to go

I don’t tell the guys where I’ve been. We go for coffee in the morning. Emma is serving, in uniform; it looks like she didn’t even change.

Captain’s Log — 9:30 AM
My dear Emma
My dear Emma
My dear Emma

She brings over a cup of black for me, and then asks everyone their orders.

Captain’s Log — 9:31AM
My dear Emma
My dear Emma
My dear Emma

We are climbing to the top of the Mont Royal. It is cold, and everyone is a better climber than I am. There’s a path, but the guys don’t use it. I use it because I need it, and so I am alone. I think of places I’d rather be.
The top of the Mont Royal is beautiful, but I am afraid. Everywhere in Montreal is slippery, and the cliffside is no different.
“So, what’d you think of the coffee shop girl?” Wilbur asks as we head to the bathroom in the hill’s service area.
“Cute, madly in love,” I say.
“What about ________?” he asks. I know it is a name as soon as he says it, and one that I have heard before. Then, it is your name.
“What about her?” I say.

Captain’s Log – 12:05PM
What would you think of all this
You’d say this is just like me
To fall without being pushed
To stumble in love
To imagine it was something
Because it could have been

On the way down the mountain, I slip and fall, scuffing my arms and banging my head against the ice. The guys laugh, and no one helps me up.
And then it’s time to go home.
I have no souvenirs to bring with me. At the border, the patrolman asks if we are taking anything back with us. Everyone says no.
My head hurts from the fall. I try to sleep, but the throbbing keeps me up. I have Emma’s number somewhere in my phone. It is too tempting to text. I am going to delete it when I gather the courage.
I send her a picture of the bruise on my face, telling her how I slipped on the mountain.
“My baby deer,” she texts back. I stare out the car window. Snow and snow and snow. What a beautiful place this would be to live. She texts, “I have to get to work.”

Captain’s Log – 6:46 PM
We’ve made it home
There is still nothing but miles behind and miles to go
It’s always moving
I’m sorry
I’m sorry