The only truth
is love beyond reason. We write about 20, 25 texts a day. I’d go, C’mon, let’s hitchhike
to Miami Beach. He’d answer now! In 1 sec he’s there. But of course I fall for that fucking
arrogant prick Jean-Marc who takes forever
to answer my emails. I’m such a dumbass. Sometimes I’m at my computer… and I panic. I get all worked up. I go, If somebody died
every time I hit Refresh, there’d be nobody left alive, fuck. When you go into a bar,
go for groceries, walk down the street, eat out… Whose ass do you check out? When you’re on the prowl,
is it tits or cocks? Tits, cocks? Cocks, tits? It was my pussy. Marilyn. The cat was gone. I knew right away because
I didn’t hear the tingaling. He’d put this collar on her… You know, for midgets…
for Santa’s elves. A tiny bell. He put a bell on,
thought it was cute. You always heard it. But I came home, she wasn’t there. I went, Marilyn? No bell. And the vase… in terracotta,
that was filled with pennies and shit, on the buffet. Gone. So I turn around
and next to the door, just my boots. No running shoes.
No guy stuff at all. So naturally I tear through
the place at like 250 mph. He’d taken everything. All… all… all his shit. On the kitchen table
there was a sheet of blue notepaper with, written in German
— cause he was German… Must still be. “I don’t want to waste my life
loving you badly.” You can’t be 50-50. Straight is straight, gay is gay. And don’t bring up
your “mood” crap. The Humidex
doesn’t affect your libido. Or the moon in Aquarius. Gimme a fucking break! I know everything. Everything. I know where he works, the restaurants he eats in. I walked by his building. Ran into the janitor. So I asked him,
dunno the fuck why, if he was home. Janitor starts talking about him. I listen. I start talking about him,
the little I knew. As if I knew him
since kindergarten. One point I realize I’m fucked. So I tell him to say
Cindy Rosenberg says hello. Not to look like a stalker. If he had any idea… I am so well informed. His dad had a stroke in 2002. His Mom owns a multicolored
wooden flowers stand at Jocelyne’s Treasures… If he knew, he’d probably enter
the witness protection program for Mafia stools. Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. That’s me. Who is that self-satisfied Adonis? The blond? Nicolas. Country lad. Friend of Sophie’s. Just moved into town. HEARTBEATS – Hello.
– Marie? Guess who we’re meeting Saturday? Seismography. You bore cables and sensors
into the ground. You blow it all up
and you can make maps. Based on the vibrations you can see what’s underground. Oil companies pay
$200 mill for ’em. It’s crazy. We work 92-hour weeks
and with overtime you take home $1300 a week,
plus a fat tax refund, cause I’m studying literature
at McGill. I only do it for the money and to forget all the shit. At night I read
to exercise my brain. Koltès keeps you in shape. – Well?
– Well, what? What do you think of Nicolas? He’s nice. Yeah, he’s nice. He’s intelligent. Personally he’s not my type. Me neither. Thursday night we enter
a rowdy bar with flashy lights and order ales and lemonade. – Hello?
– Hi, how are you? I’m good, you? Good. Guess what? I dunno. But Nico sent me a card. You got one too? Yeah, I got it this morning. So, see you Thursday, then? It’ll be fun. Eating your cherry, Terry? Cherries are too sweet. Fudge is 17 times sweeter
than cherries. Ever play hide-and-seek? Yeah. Wanna play? Like, on the mountain, maybe? Sure, but, do you need to change? Are you gonna wear that dress,
or…? Cause you… Sporty. One bottle of wine. Two bottles of wine.
Three bottles of wine… Bunny! Bunny! You must’ve sucked at this game
as a kid. There was… I saw a white rabbit. A pet rabbit that probably escaped. Marie! Marie! His dad knows a stage designer.
Nick asked me to his play. Cool. OK. You have a big bed, right? Yeah, I have a big bed. You can sleep here. We’ll just… We’ll just squeeze in. Thanks, man. Shotgun the side. I hate the middle too! No sweat, I like the middle. Good. Sleeping tight, Marie? Not eating, Marie? I’m not hungry. An article on the play
I invited you to. Francis, want me to try
to get you a ticket? – It’s on Thursday?
– Yeah. No… I’m busy Thursday. Too bad. The play’s surrealistic, but it’s
based on an Audrey Hepburn movie. The love of my life. Thanks. With one sugar. Here you go. That’s $2.25 please. Thanks. Keep the change. Bye. Hey! Hey, how’s it going? Fine, you? Yeah. What are you doing here? – I live on Jeanne-Mance.
– Really? What’s up? I was grabbing a coffee
with a friend. She just left. Funny, cause I just… Dammit! I’ll just… Fuck, my coffee! Wait, lemme show you.
Shit, I spilled it all over. Did I get you? Here you go… Lucky! Where’d you find it? It’s for you. I bought it for you. Really, Frank… You’re so sweet! – My pleasure.
– Thank you! You said you liked her
so I thought… I gotta run.
I’m cooking for a girlfriend. No worries. A girlfriend? Pesto with pine nuts. There you go. But thanks a lot.
I can’t wait to… to put it up. I’m off. – I’ll call you.
– OK. – See you!
– Bye. Don’t forget your bags! Your pesto won’t…
without the bags. – Bye!
– Call me! – Yeah!
– OK! Was it bad? No, no. It was very… engrossing. You have amazing eyes. Hazel? As banal an iris as they come. A high IQ is a vital counterpoint
to brown eyes. Do you ever think of movie stars
when you fuck? No, I don’t think of anything. Do you picture celebrities
during coitus? Yeah. But I don’t need to with you. Are you in love right now? Pains, Migraines and Sonatas Pretty so-so, huh? The dialogue was a mess. So pompous. I heard the author on the radio. She called it the work
she least understood. These pseudo borderlines… with their pain fetish as an escape
from existential ennui… Fuck off! They just need to get laid. The authors have struck again. I was irrevocably scarred by
Wild Berries and Sodomy. The characters were so Manichean. Manichean? Manichean. You know, good versus evil. All black or all white. Yeah, I know what it means. I just found it charming
you’d use the word Manichean. Seems out of character? No, not at all. On the contrary. There’s a little Vietnamese place near where I live. It might be pleasant. Yeah, totally. Marie, it’s Frankie! Frankie! – What’s up?
– We just saw the play. Shit, I forgot! It was tonight. Antony, this is Nico.
Nico, Antony… Nicolas, this is Jody. And Clara, Nicolas. Hi. Didn’t hurt too much
when you fell from heaven? How was the play? Disappointing. That’s all? What a shame. It wasn’t good? It was awful. But those actors are good. Well, they were awful. Anyway, it’s funny
you came here to eat. It’s measurable. The Kinsey scale has 7 categories,
7 degrees. 0) Exclusively heterosexual. 1) Predominantly heterosexual,
incidentally homosexual. 2) Predominantly heterosexual,
more than incidentally homosexual, – like Jean.
– Go fuck yourself! 3) Bisexual with no preference. 4) Predominantly homosexual,
incidentally heterosexual. 5) Predominantly homosexual,
more than incidentally heterosexual. And 6) Exclusively homosexual. Where do you fall on the scale? The Golden Coconut Club. No, Golden Coconut Depot. Yeah. We shared
a little Californian wine. And we split a fried banana. Then… we went dutch, because… well, I wanted it to be clear. Then I gave her a lift to the metro. It must’ve been, what, 11:15? And I went for a beer with friends. Oh, and my ex was there. The day he moved in, it was over. It was over! No, I mean, it wasn’t over, over. I mean, we still lived together
and had sex and all, but… But those are details, meaningless. It was over. Of course at first we didn’t want to admit it cause we felt bad, you know. The move, all the cargo… All that… all that stuff. That’s a shitload of money
out the window. That said, mein Herr
is making Euros, so he can go fuck himself. It’s like we were… “We…” I mean,
I’ll speak for myself. Me… For me… I was infatuated
with the kind of love we had. He lived in Berlin, me, on Dorion St, so… I guess I was in love with, you know, taking the plane and I dunno, landing, the cafés, the cigarettes and… wind from elsewhere, his accent. It doesn’t exist. It’s the concept you love. You love the concept more than him. It’s the distance you love. But when there’s no more distance… When… when there’s no more ocean to cross and all there’s left to cross
is a hallway… Anyway, it’s over now. The letter I got two days after our evening out. “My dear Julien, I can’t stop thinking
about our enchanting tête-à-tête. Your humor and gallantry seduced me. Yesterday I went to
the Northland Mall with the girls. I think I found your perfume. Is it by chance Insurrection from Colin Arpel, by chance?” No, it’s not. “My top moment of our night? Definitely when you kissed me
on the cheek at the metro station, almost grazing my cheek. I shut my eyes and felt transported
to the Champs-Élysées.” C H A N S É L I S É S. He calls me Miss. Uses “vous” with me. Who are we,
fucking de Musset and Georges Sand? Pussy-footing. I hate pussy-footing. Now he’s ruining
all my favorite places because when he’s not there, having a beer with friends… When he’s not there, I’m bored. It’s no fun. Yet, the weather’s nice, birds
are singing, the wine’s good… I mean: Shut up, bitch! But it’s no fun. When he’s there, watch out! Like I popped 5 tabs of speed.
I say hi to everyone. I act like
I’m straight off the farm. St Donat. Howdy! Worst, I hardly talk to him. But I know he sees me. You see people
even if you don’t look. Like, if you’re there. And I’m looking here. I see you. I’m not looking, but I see you. I know where you’re looking. I know you’re looking at me. Mother fucker. OK. You smell good. Thanks. Oh, God… “Tick-tock goes your biological
clock, but where is Mister Right? Modern fashionistas, what kind of man makes you drool? 1) Describe the looks of the man
of your dreams.” What, now? Yeah. Brown hai… brown eyes. For sure. Brown hair. Down to here, about. Short. No, short… Well, curly. Below the ears.
Almost shoulder-length. Curly, blond. And green eyes, maybe. This is so beautiful. “In love when I ask for a look, what is deeply unsatisfying
and always futile, is that you never look at me from where I see you.” Smoke break. I’ll wait outside. My friends! My friend! Where do we put the gifts? Shit, I am so wasted. I’ve never been this drunk
in my life! – What?
– Where do we put the gifts? Oh yeah, right! At the end of the hall, the room to the right
of the dining room. They bought me presents!
That’s so cute! Wow. He’s super drunk. A boater. – I bought him a boater.
– Yes! Beautiful, huh? I just hope he doesn’t vomit in it. No, joking. He’ll be super happy. It’s cool! Yours? Yours? It’s… It’s a little… It’s not as original. Just some threads. I wanna see!
You have such great taste! Orange! Tangerine. It’s tangerine. Blond hair and citrus tones… always a victorious partnership. Well, I mean… Maybe, I dunno… I’ve heard that orange is a safe pick for any skin tone. Dunno about fluorescent orange,
though. That may be the exception. It’ll go with my boater. You look great. Thanks, that’s sweet. You too. Bling bling! They’re precious. What a party! “T’as de beaux yeux, tu sais !” Know where that’s from? Yeah, sure. So? So what? So what comes next? I dunno. “What a party!” Idiot! Who’s that android? His mother. Her name is Désirée. He introduced me to her. She said
I looked like a 50s housewife. Who is she anyway?
Captain Spock’s wet-nurse? Or perhaps a prostitute
from Blade Runner? Your dress is a tad anachronistic. Sorry? This is vintage, dearie! Not all vintage should come back. Know what we should do? No, what? Go to my aunt’s cottage
for the weekend. She’s in Europe.
I know where she hides the keys. But I have to work. Just call in sick. Right. “Hi, this is Marie,
and I am sick.” “Hi, this is Sick,
and I am Marie.” OK, I’ll call. How are we gonna get there? Saddle up a cat? – Magic carpet.
– No, by car. I’ll borrow JP’s wheels.
He won’t mind. I better go now. Who wants to come? But someone stays.
My mom’s bringing some cash. I need to buy cigarettes. You’ll see, Francis. My mom’s cool. Can you zip me up? You’re good? Thanks. – Shall we?
– Yeah, let’s go. – Later, Francis.
– Later. Hello. The party was a fuckin’ blast. Have you known Nick long? – About two months.
– Two months! François, right? Francis, right! He’s talked about you. It’s true, you’re a cutie! Nice place, huh? A friggin’ palace! His dad pays for it. That dick thinks
he’s King of the World. I love your… What you’re wearing, your top. This? Thanks, sweetie. Got it in New York,
like, 10 years ago. I’m a dancer, I pack light. Don’t travel much now, but… Ask Nick. As a kid he loved being backstage. His dad thought it was heavy. Said it was vulgar. “It’s vulgar!” What’s a pair of tits to a toddler?
Fuck off. But ask Nick. I wonder if he still remembers. The girls were crazy about him,
smothered him with kisses. He loved it. He was cute. Yeah. He must remember. But we lost touch. I mean, Miami,
Fort Lauderdale, Ixtapa… Different time zones. His dad snatched him back, pronto. Father knows best. Say that again. He’s gotta remember. The dressing rooms. I brought him this, his allowance. Grocery, lottery, candy, whatever. Show him. He’s an airhead. He’ll toss it out.
Ciao sweet dough! Not home? I hoped to give him a smooch.
Where the fuck is he? He’ll be back. He’s out with… Marie. You’ll tell him, right? Give him a kiss from me,
huh, twinkie? He’ll be glad, I’m sure. – Nice meeting you, Francis.
– Me, too. You are a cutie. – Bye.
– Have a nice day. Don’t forget to tell him
or he’ll toss it out. He’s an airhead. – Bye.
– Have a nice day. The country’s so beautiful. We tend to forget. Audrey Hepburn! Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That’s where it’s from! I forgot! I adore Audrey Hepburn! Me… Gotta piss. Be right back. Marie? I love you. I love you too. Frankie, too. I love the dude. I mean, he’s so sweet! – A bit shy, but…
– Over-sensitive? Yeah. In what way, sensitive? No, nothing. No, it’s just he’s… He’s a romantic. He imagines things about people. What do you mean? It’s just he imagines things, about anything, anyone… If you give him too much affection, or touch him too much… Like, for him, “I love you” is “I love you.” You can say it to me. I understand these kind of things. But him… Anyway… Lunch is on me. River. Yeah, it’s beautiful. It’s crazy. Yeah, the country is beautiful. You forget everything. All the shit that drives you crazy. You forget. Next marshmallow? Not me, thanks. Frankie? OK. You don’t know how to eat ’em. Why? You eat your marshmallow too fast. You’re not tasting it. A marshmallow’s like a striptease. Step by step. – Have another…
– No. Man, I’m full, I swear. Come on. Now do as I say
Start by taking off its coat. Come again? Its coat.
Its little peel, its skin. The burned, golden layer. Start with that. OK. Good start. Now, using your palate and incisors,
pull off the second part by applying a teeny
slight pressure. But you leave… you leave a thin core. And then… You’re so drunk. OK, I’m going to bed. You’re angry? No no, just tired. – You OK?
– Yeah, yeah. Guys? Whatever! Whatever! Whatever! Whatever! Yeah, it’s me. Yes, on the cliff. Yes. No, I’m going to take the bus. An emergency. I forgot I had
an emergency in Montréal. I’ll take the bus in an hour. Don’t go to any trouble for me.
It’s fine. I’ll just take the bus. Bye. Marie! Wait! Marie, fuck! What’s your fucking problem? Hey, guys? I’ve had it with the country. I’m going home. Love me or leave me. We’ve been waiting
outside the hotel for 15, even 25 minutes. Endless! It’s raining. A bitchy little drizzle like,
you know, someone’s goddamn spitting
in your face. My balls are ice cold,
I’m insanely bored. Julie’s reading some poems by… Jacques Brault. It’s taking forever,
he’s late, we’re bored. But Julie’s gonna shoot herself
if we bail. There’s an old doorman
from Colorado. No idea what he’s doing there.
But he’s nice so we chat. Finally he shows up. That bitch is like… 45 minutes late. He’s wearing his vintage Navy jacket. He’s cute. He’s tall and… We’re there so Julie
can make her move. It’s now or never. Problem is, the guy is with someone. Another guy! Also cute and tall.
I glance at Julie. Her face looks like shit. Dude’s like, “Sorry, I lost. I late.” You don’t call, you don’t write, or talk to her. Over. If you know she’s at
a party or bar, you don’t go. It took me about a year. The lucky ones get over it in two weeks, two months,
two days… Every time I saw her I figured I’d get cramps,
be jealous of her new BF. But no. I got over it. Autumn leaves fell, snow came. Christmas, and my cousins
with their dumb girlfriends. Spring, summer, fall and… I got over it. Just a bad memory. A memory like many others. When I think of what I did, the money I blew
to get her to love me… I think of it all and I’m so ashamed that… I start to… to sing. To sing, fuck! I sing in the living room,
in the shower, doing the dishes. I sing. I hit Send. I mean, enough’s enough. Smell the coffee.
Not spend my whole life on Hotmail. I mean, it’s cute at first, but… It’s such a high. You know, the feeling when your Inbox has new messages, in bold. You have mail! The nanosecond after you click and it appears. He wrote. You’re even happier cause twice your Inbox’s been in bold. An email from fucking Amazon.ca! Or a lampshade warehouse sale. I’m in a café. I’m waiting for him. And he’s late. But only a minute,
so it’s not serious. So, stage one: loving his being late. You go, It makes him human, gives him sex appeal. Stage two: Checking my agenda. You know, I question myself. Maybe I got it wrong.
I invent scenarios. I picture myself arriving late
at another café. So I look where I am and I’m in the right place. It’s been 32 minutes. Stage three: I tell myself I don’t mind waiting. I keep myself busy, I read. I pretend to read.
The same fucking paragraph. I go to the bathroom, order stuff. Now I hate him. I insult him in my head. I think of cool quotes that’ll be
perfect for when he shows up. It’s been 39 minutes. He arrives. All out of breath. Handsome. Traffic was bad. Yeah. So I excuse him. I say, of course, only normal
that he’s late. Cause… Cause I’m weak and someone you put on a pedestal
is always right. Fuck it. Rejection’s tough but… it’s over with. No? It’s like a guillotine. But… waiting for an answer, spending weeks thinking I’m shit, while he goes, Is she crazy? It’s like getting your head
chopped off in slo-mo. It’s like a long, lingering No. But at a certain point, you get fed up. You crack. You crack and everything’s filthy. Everything’s dark and burned out. So I hit Send. You’re smoking a lot. Compared to last time. I smoked as much then. I love to smoke. Smoking a cigarette is like forgetting. When I hit rock bottom
it’s all I have. Light up, smoke up,
shut the fuck up. It hides the shit. The smoke hides the shit. There’s menthol and vanilla. Some people like ’em. Menthol cigarette. Vanilla cigarette. Chocolate cigarette. Cigarette cigarette. Cigarettes clearly keep me from going crazy. Keeps me alive. It keeps me alive until I die. Are you all right? First snowfall! So, it’s been a while since
we saw each other in the country. And I was wondering, if there was some misunderstanding,
or awkwardness? If you were angry or… You know, about the episode of our bucolic wrestle. That’s it. Just a little game
between Marie and me. We’re old friends. I thought of you because they’re showing
My Fair Lady on TV. I saw it in the TV listings. My Fair Lady’s on tonight.
I called cause I thought
it’d be fun to watch. It’d be fun to watch together. If you feel like it. Here. Or at your place or… Anyway, if you’re not busy. So then… Yes, this is Nicolas’s voice mail. So leave me a message. I wait for you in the season
that is ours We have to talk. No, you know, I’m someone who… No, I… I like being with you. I feel… I feel good.
Yeah, I like being with you. OK. Imagine… Imagine that let’s say, we have a friend and he meets a guy. He meets a nice guy, funny, charming, handsome, of course. He’s intelligent. He’s… cultivated. Very open-minded.
So much that you go, “Wow, he’s so open-minded!”
You’re touched. That’s what seduces you,
touches you. He touches you.
He’s tender and fun. Let’s say you meet this nice guy,
what do you do? I love you. I really want to kiss you. I don’t know why
I’m telling you this. No, it’s just that, it’s the end of fall. I’ll have to start heating my place. And it would be simpler
if there were someone… If there were someone. It’s simpler if there is someone. And also, I haven’t told you
about my marks like… Christ! Robinson Crusoe. I put a mark to… You know, when… someone tells me, “No, thanks.” “No. Thanks,
but I’m not interested.” Whenever that happens
I add another little mark. But now I’m just tired of it. They help me
make a clean break. Know what I mean? So… You? Talk to me. How could you think I was gay? Excuse me a sec. Nico? Hello! Hi! – How are you?
– Good. It’s been so long. I spotted you.
It’s been ages. Sorry, I was completely… That’s OK, it doesn’t matter. We’re both busy. It’s… I called once
but didn’t leave a message. Wasn’t important.
But I had a friend. From Matane.
She’d just got back from a trip. Évelyne. And she… Yeah,
she was reading her mail and… Cause, I’d sent her a letter. I sent her a letter with an article, an article by Peter Schlag in the Boston Observer.
I dunno if you… It’s a literary review. It was an article about… Remains of Fascism
in Modern Literature. It’s amazing! I’m going on and on.
But what I mean is, it’s to you that I wanted to send the article. And to her that I wanted to send…
You got the poem? It’s to her I wanted to send
the Miron poem. I sent them the same night.
I mixed up the addresses. So you ended up with
the poem by Miron. I could see you reading the poem. It was pretty heavy but it wasn’t the goal of the exercise. Your friend, is she your girlfriend? Pardon? The girl, is she your lover? Your ex? Or… No, not at all. No, it was just her birthday. She likes Miron and I thought…
I’d sent her… the poem. Sorry, I have to run.
I’ve got something on the stove. So… Nico! Nicolas! What would you say if, if I’d sent the poem to you? I’d… still have something on the stove. Sorry. Fuck! I know it was him. I’ll never love anyone else
that much. Tough. I can handle it. I know it’s usually later in life that you meet
your soul mate. Me, too bad. It happened now, when I’m 25. It’s not even about sex.
I don’t care about sex. That’s not the main thing. What’s important is to wake up with someone. To spoon with that person. That’s what matters, the spoon. Knowing that if a bad guy comes, someone’s there. That’s a metaphor.
Bad guys never come. You wake up with the wind, a warm belly,
the one who loves you breathing against your shoulder. That’s it, the spoon. Yeah. I must seem… Ever met a downer like me
or am I the first? Oh boy! I’ve been a hairdresser
20 years, I’ve styled single spoons galore. Hello, Francis Riverëkim, I went shopping at Beverley’s and bought mismatched cups to serve tea. So, I don’t know if you’re free, but you’re invited
for afternoon tea. So call me back. Oh, I quit smoking. Call me. Bye. I’m out of madeleines. Love your stubble. Thanks. You’ve joined the club of bears? Here’s that armchair. The armchair I mentioned. Yeah, right. Have you seen Nico? Yes. I saw him in a bar. Did you go together? No I was having a drink. He came in with friends.
I just said hi. He’s going to Asia. Is he? Eight months. Long time. Have you seen him? More tea? Sure, good idea. One year later That repellent Rockabilly looks like
a foetus-eating queen from Gehenna. Yuck! I’m really glad…