I’m not attracted to any one type of guy in particular. I’ve always taken what came along, and anyhow, I think ­specialties are a little suspect. It strikes me as impossible always to want the same thing—the same build, the same look, the same atmosphere. It reeks of fixation, which grates on my nerves. Men who chase after child-women, for instance—I know a few, my department at the CEGEP’s full of them always make me uncomfortable, just like my friends at the Paradise who only get off on bulging muscles and a sadistic military look. Unless you’re married and faithful, I don’t see the practicality of always being lured by the same carrot. So, I’ve got nothing against guys a lot younger than I am, though I’m not an out-and-out pedophile, another annoying disease that’s fairly widespread in my circle.

I stood for a while leaning against the window of the bar, looking out at the few passers-by who were strolling down the street. Most of them turned onto Prince-Arthur, looking for a reasonably-priced restaurant. In the end I forgot about the guy who’d been observing me earlier, and once I’d downed my beer I made my way to the door. He had moved towards the bar so he’d be able to see the entire establishment. Now he was deep in conversation with a guy his own age who seemed to be very interested in him, but he still kept looking in my direction, as if he hadn’t taken his eyes off me all this time. I was very flattered, so flattered in fact that I decided to hang around a little longer. When he saw me hesitate at the door, he gave me a tentative little smile. The other fellow who was talking to him noticed and with an inane look that spelled out eloquently his I.Q., slipped away discreetly, probably claiming he had to pee.

Should I move in now? No, I decided to leave the ­decisions to him, all the way. I went back to the dance floor, now livelier than ever. He followed. But he didn’t approach me. He was still staring, but seemed too shy to speak. Only his eyes, piercing, almost feverish, were impudent.

It kills me to come up with the opening remark. I ­exhausted them ages ago, at least all the ones that aren’t embarrassingly dumb, and the ones that occurred to me that evening were so trite they made me blush.

He had a Université de Montréal sweatshirt knotted around his neck. The pretext wasn’t the most original but I had to start somewhere, since he obviously wasn’t going to.

“You’re at the university?”

He seemed surprised.

“No . . . Why do you ask?”

“Your sweatshirt . . .”

“Oh, that! . . . It’s a guy . . . a friend lent it to me . . . I put it on because of the air-conditioning.”