Montreal, Wednesday, 26 October 1988

He's leaning up against the wall outside Professor Moncrief's class, waiting for her, with a paper bag in one hand.

"Carrie said your other class was canceled today," Alain says before she can ask why he's there. "Which meant I did not have to think of how to talk you into skipping it."

"Which would have been unsuccessfully," Meg says. There are certain things even Alain cannot talk Meg into doing. Which reminds her . . . "Wait. Don't you have a class this afternoon?"

Because the chance that they've both been canceled seems . . . unlikely.

"I have something better to do this afternoon," he says, reaching for her backpack.

Meg raises an eyebrow, and keeps hold of her bag. "Really? What?"

"I'm going to spend it with you."

"Alain," Meg says. "You see me all the time. That's not a good reason to miss a class."

"Meg, ma belle, it is. Today it is. Trust me. I'm not missing anything I can't make up, and I'm not going to make a habit of it. I promise. All right?"

"Fine. But just this once," Meg says, finally letting him take the bag. "Why is today special?"

"You'll see," he says. And that's all he'll say on the subject, won't tell her where they're going as they walk across the McGill campus, won't tell her what's in the bag he has with him.

It's a mild sort of day, for Montreal in October, so Meg doesn't object when they head into the park on Mont Royal. Or when, after about twenty minutes, he stops at a bench, and sits down.

"Do you know what today is?"

"The twenty-sixth of October," Meg says. "Oh. Eight months."

"Eight months," he says, and hands her the paper bag. "This is for you."

"You didn't have to--"

"Open it."

Meg opens the paper bag to find a rectangular box made of dark blue glass. And she opens the box to find . . .

"Hearts," Meg says, too stunned to say anything else.

Paper hearts. Dozens and dozens of small red paper hearts. And some of them say I love you and some of them say je t'aime.

"Lots of hearts," Meg amends.

"Two hundred and forty-three," Alain says. "One for every day I've known you. Eight months."

Meg looks down at the box and back up at him.

"I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't choose a language, yours or mine, so I thought this way I could tell you in both at once. I love you. Je t'aime."

Meg's doesn't think she could find any words at all, in either language, right now. Even though she's pretty sure that was her cue.

"So I was going to get a card or something but then I thought of this, and it seemed like a good . . . so I . . . it's a little . . . what's the word . . . is it ridiculous? Too much? Too like something out of a bad movie and now I'm talking too much and . . . Meg, please. Say something."

"I . . ." Meg says. And then kisses him, without a thought for the fact that they're on a bench in the middle of a public park. "I love you."

"Dieu merci," Alain breathes, and kisses her again. "I was very worried for a moment. That I had done something wrong--"

"No," Meg says. "No, it's . . . it's perfect. It's insane -- you cut out two hundred some odd paper hearts, Alain -- but it's perfect."

Alain wraps his arm around her shoulder, and settles his chin on the top of her head. "Two hundred and forty-three," he says. "And this time next month, I'll have to cut out another thirty."

"No," Meg says, turning her head just enough to look up into his eyes. "This time next month, you'll have to cut out another thirty-one."