This isn’t to say I wanted what I assumed these women had. I knew the life I wanted and the life I didn’t. I mean to say it fascinated me, and that when Cleo messaged me last November, to say that she was here, she was stuck, and could she crash with me?—sure, it was a surprise, but it also made perfect sense. Like of course, after all this time, this was the context in which I’d see her again.

I’d been walking home by the river when she messaged. The air was brisk and cool. There was bullshit with my passport, Cleo explained. They just let me through but my bus left hours ago.

I told her I was close to the tunnel; I’d be on my way.

She said, What’s your compatibility with bars?

This intentionality of communication, a very delicate and pointed openness. Queers like to talk shit about being terrible communicators, but I don’t think that’s always true. I’m trying to say I loved it when Cleo said this to me.

My compatibility with bars is great, I said. Then, remembering Cleo was Cleo, I added, I won’t drink that much though.

Cleo replied, Me neither, I’m sober. Where do I meet you?

She was already sitting in the dark light when I walked into Villains, a glass of fizzing liquid on the table and a picture of Agent Smith from The Matrix behind her. That’s the shtick at Villains. The decor is all paintings of bad guys, from Darth Vader to Yosemite Sam to the old woman from The Goonies. I think it’s cute.

Cleo wore a dress with green flowers and an unzipped grey wool jacket. She stood and spread her arms wide. “I made it to Canada!”

After we hugged, I got an OV and sat. “What are you doing here? Where were you going? Toronto …?”

“Montreal. How are you? The years have been kind to you, lady. You look great.”

“Uh-huh.” What can I say? That compliment rolls off me. I added, “Hey, congratulations on your sobriety.”

“Ha!” Cleo let out a sharp bark. “Sure, thanks.”

It was as if we’d both somehow inadvertently insulted each other, then both decided to let it pass. As we sat in silence, this girl with red hair walked by and waved to me, a girl who’s here all the time. Young kid. One night, she showed me a stripper’s socials who she thought was just the coolest. She was matter-of-fact about it.

I don’t mind the next generation. I’d be happy to put them all in charge and skip ours, to be honest.

Then Cleo spoke quietly. “I’m trying to move here.”

Let me tell you, Sue: who the years had been kind to was her. Her eyes were more sunken, and her roots a subtle grey, but besides that, she looked no different—and I mean no different—than she had staring down at me in her bed twelve years ago, her forearm wrapped around my legs. If I hadn’t known her, you could’ve told me she was any age between twenty-five and fifty and I would’ve believed you. “What do you mean you’re trying to move here?” I snapped. “To Canada!” Cleo said. Then she saw my face and put a hand up. “Oh. No, I don’t mean, like, here.” She pointed a finger down at the ground. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you. This girl I worked with lives up there. I’m just trying to leave the US. She knows doula people; I’m gonna talk with them.”