"That Late-Night Poutine Run, His Quiet Laugh, and a Shared Shiver in the Cold"

"That Late-Night Poutine Run, His Quiet Laugh, and a Shared Shiver in the Cold"

The Montreal winter had a biting beauty, the city blanketed in a layer of crisp white snow, the air sharp and clean. I'd been studying late at McGill, the glow of my laptop screen reflecting in the frosty windowpane. Exhausted and craving something warm and comforting, I decided to brave the cold for a late-night poutine run to that little place near Saint-Laurent.
The line was short, a mix of students and night owls, all huddled in their winter coats, the steam from the fries and gravy a welcome sight. That's where I noticed him. He was standing a few spots ahead of me, his dark hair peeking out from under a toque, a quiet smile playing on his lips as he scrolled through his phone. There was a gentle warmth about him that seemed to cut through the winter chill.
When he turned to order, I heard his French, soft and melodic. "Une poutine avec extra fromage, s'il vous plaît." (A poutine with extra cheese, please.) There was something so inherently Montreal about that simple request.
As he waited for his order, he turned and noticed me, a small, polite smile gracing his lips. "Bonsoir," he murmured, his breath misting in the cold air.
"Bonsoir," I replied, my own French a little less fluid.
We started talking, the conversation sparked by our shared craving for greasy comfort food in the middle of the night. His name was Antoine (another Antoine!), and he was a graduate student in literature. We talked about our studies, the beauty of the snow-covered city at night, and the eternal debate of squeaky versus non-squeaky cheese curds. His laugh was quiet and genuine, a warm sound in the cold night air.
When our orders were ready, we ended up standing next to each other at the small counter, shoveling forkfuls of poutine into our mouths, the warmth spreading through us. There was a comfortable camaraderie in our shared indulgence.
As we stepped back out into the cold, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the street, making me shiver. Without thinking, Antoine reached out and gently touched my arm. "Fait froid, hein?" (It's cold, eh?), he said, his eyes filled with a kind concern.
His touch, even through my thick winter coat, sent a surprising warmth through me, a different kind of heat than the poutine. We stood there for a moment, the glow of the streetlights reflecting in the snow, a shared shiver connecting us in the Montreal night.
"Un peu," (A little,) I replied, my cheeks slightly flushed despite the cold.
He hesitated for a moment, then offered, "Je marche de ce côté. On pourrait marcher ensemble?" (I'm walking this way. We could walk together?).
The thought of walking through the silent, snow-covered streets with him, sharing the quiet beauty of the Montreal night, felt unexpectedly appealing. The warmth of the poutine, the unexpected touch of his hand, the gentle sound of his French – it all created a sense of possibility in the crisp winter air. The late-night craving for comfort food had led to a different kind of warmth, a shared moment in the Montreal cold that held the promise of something more than just cheesy fries and gravy.