I smoke a cigarette as I walk along the Quai Saint-André, cupping it in my hand.
I have always smoked this way. Done everything this way, really.
I watch a grain barge chugging up the St. Lawrence churning brown froth as it passes. I flick the butt into the river and turn back toward the market.
Somewhere in this crowd of tourists she is meeting him now, telling him everything is set.
Telling him she will leave me today.
How I came to know this is unimportant. It is a fact, intractable, unchangeable.
What comes next is anyone’s guess.