Two Kids On A Balcony

Naked side by side, we sit with our backs against the large panoramic window overlooking the Montreal skyline. One double-folded duvet between us and the cold, damp concrete balcony, the other wrapped around us. It’s our picnic together. We drink fruity white wine, eat green olives and spit the kernels over the railing. Countless windows in the high-rise building opposite cast their warm homely light back to us, and in each window, a theatre in miniature takes place. A mother cooks dinner for her daughter, who watches television in the window next door. A man waters his flowers, and he looks happy. A lady sleeps in her favourite chair with a beaten-up book on her lap. Together they each contribute a small piece of the puzzle in the glittering skyline of the big city.

You lift up your hat with the small neatly folded notes and playfully say, “Best of three?” Our eyes meet, and I mumble a reply and pick a paper randomly. An unexpected and nervous feeling fills my stomach when I unfold it and read my name. You put your hand on my thigh under the covers, let it rest, and you feel the muscles tense, slightly vibrating. I unfold a second note to read your name, you smile at me, and your gaze focuses on the remaining white papers. I shake the hat once again, pull one last note, and hand it to you. You quickly unfold it, read it, look up at me, and say your name.

I reach for the pants kicked off next to the balcony door and pull off the leather belt. As I move, the duvet falls to the floor, and the chilly evening wind washes over us. You pull your knees up to your chest and hug them tightly to keep warm. The belt is put around your wrists, and I lift you to your feet. With your hands stretched high, I hang my belt over the balcony door. When the door closes again, the belt is wedged, and you are trapped. I sit down on the duvet again and eat another olive, contentedly watching you. I can see the panic spreading from your stomping feet via the goosebumps on your legs to your panting breathing and flailing gaze.

You look out over the countless windows, which, in the shape of the eyes of the house, observe you. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. You whisper to yourself, and I can’t help but laugh. I enjoy another sip of wine. I love seeing you like this and reminding you that this is most likely illegal. The whole world looks down on us from the windows, the planes and the stars, and here we exist together at the centre of everything. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Again. I get on my knees before you and let my warm hands stroke your freezing thighs. Your scent fills my awareness as I press my face between your legs. Fuck fuck fuck turns into a quiet moan.

In the house opposite, the mother is now eating with her daughter, the flowers are watered, and the old lady’s window is dark.