le chiquito

s. played a concert in a seedy basement bar on the rue menilmontant last night. the staircase from the kitschy wood-paneled bar on the ground level descended into a dark box covered in hallucinogenic portraits of men and graffiti bearing no signs of love or former presence (no J+E TOUJOURS or MIKE WAS HERE) but things like "human compost" and "arnac, anarchy."

a norwegian man wore his beard in two braids and grunted in a primal language descended from the gods, or the dogs, and he called out of an animal horn to the flaking ceiling. his shadow responded. he sounded like a loon. i mean the bird, not a crazy person.

s. only played for ten minutes - i missed the first three, keeping v. company while she smoked her cigarette and told me taking dance classes - before the bar shut down and kicked us all out. it was at this point that i learned that s. had already drunk a bottle of vodka.

hungry, distracted, shy; i looked at my feet and the rain dripping from the awning while people smoked their cigarettes and talked their talk. hungry, "can't we eat? aren't you hungry too?" he is never hungry when i am hungry, i am never hungry when he is hungry. i went back in the bar. the patron, the man who had ended the concert, guided me to the back table. "it's time to eat," he said. "it will get cold." this gruff sober man had prepared a bowl of ruffly pasta and chicken wings and was angry that it was not being eaten. "come," he said. we came, little by little, and didn't start eating yet. i ripped off a piece of baguette, put a chicken leg on t.'s plate, poured the water and the wine, and we waited. the norwegian viking came, the swiss "experimental dronist" came, the girlfriends came. i poured their wine. "oh la la, ca froidi!" the patron said. we ate. we drank. we sat in the back of the bar under the picture of brigitte bardot and everyone but s. talked about how beautiful canada was.