Too Cold for Comfort in the West End

Quinn McIlhone

Given such happy nights

were spent playing love games

on a couch with you,

it is curious

I should find myself

weighing a lift home

after basketball.

I have a tentative agreement

to tryst with her

but am marooned in a brasserie

and to phone for a cab

would start my table talking,

so I accept the ride

and tell my friend to let me off

at the beer store on Wilson.

But he comes in to buy

and insists on seeing me home,

and there’s no reason to walk

even a half-block

in a Quebec winter.

He idles outside the flat,

and I can see light

in our living-room window

and know you are waiting up.

When I say goodbye,

hop out of the car

and close the door behind me,

the impact rings out

in the silent, frozen night.

As he drives off,

I assess my chances

and decide there’s no escape

if you have heard the noise

and checked its source;

I resign myself

to an hour or two

in your company,

and you greet me at the stairs,

warm and solicitous.

I’m skittish despite three rounds

but try to hide it

so you won’t suspect

she’s still in play,

informing my attitude.

We walk to the couch

and you sit so close

I know you’ll yield at a touch.

But I don’t reach out, loath

to betray her, as though

that in itself were not betrayal,

and we sit inches apart,

staring at the dispassionate tube.