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Saturday, 28 January 1989, Montreal
Meg all but chases Carrie and Olivia out of their apartment on Saturday night. They both have dates, and they both offer to cancel them and stay home if Meg doesn't want to be alone. And she appreciates the gesture (and if she's being honest, she doesn't want to be alone right now), but they have plans they've been looking forward to, and she tells them to go.
She's in her own locked apartment, after all. She's fine. She can make some mint tea and get some class work done.
She almost jumps out of her chair when someone knocks on the front door.
She has to stand on tiptoe to see through the too-high peephole in the door. Carrie has taped a sign to the back of the door to remind them all -- in big red letters -- to SEE WHO IT IS BEFORE OPENING DOOR. Meg generally did, anyway, but again, it's a gesture she appreciates.
It's Alain, who is supposed to have plans with his brother tonight.
"Is everything all right?" she asks, as she opens the door.
"Yes. I thought you might want company."
"What about Luc? I thought you two were--"
"We can do it another time."
And it's on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go ahead with his plans, because that's what Meg does, and because she really doesn't need someone to keep her company right now.
But, then, he didn't ask if she needed company, and she kind of does want someone to keep her company right now.
(And sometimes, too, it's not about wanting or needing but letting someone do something for you.)
"Come on in."
It's a low key kind of evening -- Alain runs out to get a pizza, Meg makes a salad, they make cookies, they play Trivial Pursuit (Meg wins) and Mille Bornes (Alain wins).
When it's midnight and neither of her roommates is home yet, and Alain asks her if she wants him to stay and sleep on the couch, Meg doesn't hesitate before she nods.
She does hesitate, though, when she wakes up at four in the morning from unsettling dreams, mind spinning and face too hot. Because it's four in the morning. Because she feels a little ridiculous reacting to a nightmare, like she's six-years old or something.
And then she pulls her sweater on over her pajamas, and goes back to the living room.
"Alain? Tu dors?" It's barely even a whisper, from the doorway. Not enough to actually wake him, just enough to get his attention if he is awake.
"Non." Alain sits up and holds one arm out. "Meg, are you all right?"
English. It's always English when he's worried about her.
Meg settles on the couch next to him, curls up against him, and nods. "Yes. Just . . . weird dreams."
"Do you want to talk about them?"
"I don't really remember very much. Just . . . odd, disjointed images and then waking up in a panic."
Alain kisses her forehead and then rests his chin on top of her head. "You're safe."
"I know." But she also knows that she dreams about things that bother her, and what's clearest from that dream is the sound of someone knocking on a door. "Alain, can I talk to you about something?"
"Anything," he says.
"I want to talk about next month, and all the plans you're making for things."
She can't see his face, but she's willing to guess this is not the topic he was expecting. "What about them?"
And now she does move, a little, so that she can see his face. "I . . . I know you put so much thought into stuff like that. You give wonderful presents, and you plan fabulous outings, and I know you enjoy surprising me but . . . I don't actually like being surprised all that much, not in big ways. All the things I do that everyone teases me about -- the lists and the plans and the organizing -- I don't do those things because I have to, or because I need, I do them because I want to. I enjoy them. I love weighing options and analyzing and doing research and making plans. And for things like Valentine's Day or our anniversary, I want to be involved in the planning and the deciding. I want to have fifteen minute conversations about the relative merits of restaurants and movies, and I want get to look to forward to things. And I don't mean don't ever surprise me again, but . . . not all the time."
There's a pause, a long one, and for a moment, Meg is sure she's just managed to seriously offend her boyfriend. And then he says, "Ma belle, why didn't you tell me this sooner?"
"Because . . . everyone likes surprises, right?"
"But you don't."
"I didn't want to . . . I don't usually mind them, they're just not my favorite thing. And you like planning them."
"Yes, I do. Especially for you. All right," Alain says, a little briskly. "Negotiations time."
"Okay," Meg says, carefully.
"Let's see. I will go ahead with my plans for your birthday. But tomorrow we will make anniversary plans and Valentine's Day plans together."
"I think that sounds like a very sensible compromise," Meg says.
"Good. Now, what about small surprises?"
"Like what?"
"Well, I don't have to tell you what I'm planning to buy you for Christmas or your birthday, do I?"
"No, you don't have to do that."
"How about buying you flowers for no particular reason?" he says.
"Always allowed."
"Hiding cards in your textbooks?"
"Also allowed."
"Conspiring with your friends?"
"Depends on what you're conspiring about," Meg says. "You can do things like ask Carrie if I like red roses or pink ones."
"You like white roses, ma belle. And yellow."
"Well, I didn't say you needed to ask Carrie what kind of roses I like. Also, friends are one thing, and family is another."
"All right. Coming over when you're not expecting me?"
"Calling first is better."
"Then I will call next time. Buying you a car?"
"Now you're just being silly."
Alain doesn't say anything, just raises an eyebrow.
"Tell me you're just being silly," Meg says, and he laughs.
Meg rolls her eyes and settles back against him.
"Meg," he says. "I want you to promise me that you will tell me the next time something makes you uncomfortable, whether it's some . . ." Alain omits whatever noun he was going to use " . . . following you around, or me making dinner reservations without talking to you first."
"Uncomfortable is far too strong a word for the latter," she says. "But I will."
"Good. Now, two doors or four?"
Meg shakes her head, laughing a little.
"We have a lot of decisions to make about this, ma belle."
"Is kissing you going to be the only way to shut you up about the car?"
"Probably not the only one, but if you're asking me to pick, it would be my first choice."
Which is convenient, because it's Meg's first choice, too.
She's in her own locked apartment, after all. She's fine. She can make some mint tea and get some class work done.
She almost jumps out of her chair when someone knocks on the front door.
She has to stand on tiptoe to see through the too-high peephole in the door. Carrie has taped a sign to the back of the door to remind them all -- in big red letters -- to SEE WHO IT IS BEFORE OPENING DOOR. Meg generally did, anyway, but again, it's a gesture she appreciates.
It's Alain, who is supposed to have plans with his brother tonight.
"Is everything all right?" she asks, as she opens the door.
"Yes. I thought you might want company."
"What about Luc? I thought you two were--"
"We can do it another time."
And it's on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go ahead with his plans, because that's what Meg does, and because she really doesn't need someone to keep her company right now.
But, then, he didn't ask if she needed company, and she kind of does want someone to keep her company right now.
(And sometimes, too, it's not about wanting or needing but letting someone do something for you.)
"Come on in."
It's a low key kind of evening -- Alain runs out to get a pizza, Meg makes a salad, they make cookies, they play Trivial Pursuit (Meg wins) and Mille Bornes (Alain wins).
When it's midnight and neither of her roommates is home yet, and Alain asks her if she wants him to stay and sleep on the couch, Meg doesn't hesitate before she nods.
She does hesitate, though, when she wakes up at four in the morning from unsettling dreams, mind spinning and face too hot. Because it's four in the morning. Because she feels a little ridiculous reacting to a nightmare, like she's six-years old or something.
And then she pulls her sweater on over her pajamas, and goes back to the living room.
"Alain? Tu dors?" It's barely even a whisper, from the doorway. Not enough to actually wake him, just enough to get his attention if he is awake.
"Non." Alain sits up and holds one arm out. "Meg, are you all right?"
English. It's always English when he's worried about her.
Meg settles on the couch next to him, curls up against him, and nods. "Yes. Just . . . weird dreams."
"Do you want to talk about them?"
"I don't really remember very much. Just . . . odd, disjointed images and then waking up in a panic."
Alain kisses her forehead and then rests his chin on top of her head. "You're safe."
"I know." But she also knows that she dreams about things that bother her, and what's clearest from that dream is the sound of someone knocking on a door. "Alain, can I talk to you about something?"
"Anything," he says.
"I want to talk about next month, and all the plans you're making for things."
She can't see his face, but she's willing to guess this is not the topic he was expecting. "What about them?"
And now she does move, a little, so that she can see his face. "I . . . I know you put so much thought into stuff like that. You give wonderful presents, and you plan fabulous outings, and I know you enjoy surprising me but . . . I don't actually like being surprised all that much, not in big ways. All the things I do that everyone teases me about -- the lists and the plans and the organizing -- I don't do those things because I have to, or because I need, I do them because I want to. I enjoy them. I love weighing options and analyzing and doing research and making plans. And for things like Valentine's Day or our anniversary, I want to be involved in the planning and the deciding. I want to have fifteen minute conversations about the relative merits of restaurants and movies, and I want get to look to forward to things. And I don't mean don't ever surprise me again, but . . . not all the time."
There's a pause, a long one, and for a moment, Meg is sure she's just managed to seriously offend her boyfriend. And then he says, "Ma belle, why didn't you tell me this sooner?"
"Because . . . everyone likes surprises, right?"
"But you don't."
"I didn't want to . . . I don't usually mind them, they're just not my favorite thing. And you like planning them."
"Yes, I do. Especially for you. All right," Alain says, a little briskly. "Negotiations time."
"Okay," Meg says, carefully.
"Let's see. I will go ahead with my plans for your birthday. But tomorrow we will make anniversary plans and Valentine's Day plans together."
"I think that sounds like a very sensible compromise," Meg says.
"Good. Now, what about small surprises?"
"Like what?"
"Well, I don't have to tell you what I'm planning to buy you for Christmas or your birthday, do I?"
"No, you don't have to do that."
"How about buying you flowers for no particular reason?" he says.
"Always allowed."
"Hiding cards in your textbooks?"
"Also allowed."
"Conspiring with your friends?"
"Depends on what you're conspiring about," Meg says. "You can do things like ask Carrie if I like red roses or pink ones."
"You like white roses, ma belle. And yellow."
"Well, I didn't say you needed to ask Carrie what kind of roses I like. Also, friends are one thing, and family is another."
"All right. Coming over when you're not expecting me?"
"Calling first is better."
"Then I will call next time. Buying you a car?"
"Now you're just being silly."
Alain doesn't say anything, just raises an eyebrow.
"Tell me you're just being silly," Meg says, and he laughs.
Meg rolls her eyes and settles back against him.
"Meg," he says. "I want you to promise me that you will tell me the next time something makes you uncomfortable, whether it's some . . ." Alain omits whatever noun he was going to use " . . . following you around, or me making dinner reservations without talking to you first."
"Uncomfortable is far too strong a word for the latter," she says. "But I will."
"Good. Now, two doors or four?"
Meg shakes her head, laughing a little.
"We have a lot of decisions to make about this, ma belle."
"Is kissing you going to be the only way to shut you up about the car?"
"Probably not the only one, but if you're asking me to pick, it would be my first choice."
Which is convenient, because it's Meg's first choice, too.