I sat on the couch in early morning hours, listening to Kathleen’s Theme and thinking of her, my adventures. And dear old Quebec.

Montréal can be filthy with debris on the sidewalks, boarded buildings, hookers and hobos walking the streets asking for money in French and English. Bars with bars on windows. Yet charming.

Her dark hair looked as though blue jays nested in it. Her face was dirty, and skirt ripped. She sat on the curb with legs open for business.

Hey you, she said to me as I walked by. Hey! I’ll do anything for a beer, she whispered loudly. Anything.

I looked at her and thought, what would Christ do? I’ll buy you a beer, I said. A tall boy. The coldest we can find. 

Alright. Now you’re talking. 

She started to come to her feet like a rocky first-born calf. I gave her my hand and held it into the liquor store where a Japanese lady behind the counter looked at us with great disdain as she skipped to the cooler to make her selection.

Michelob. My daddy used to drink this back in Calgary. He’d stay up all night watching hockey and drinking this stuff. When he fell asleep, I’d steal a couple and sit outside on the curb, drinking them and watching stars fall.

That’s the one you want?

Yes. She grabbed a six-pack. I laughed. I reminded  her she said just one. 

What good does one do me?

OK. 

We marched up to the woman at the cash register, and I got out my card to pay for it.

Cash only, she said.

I only have American.

Fine. You pay $15. That good deal.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Do you have a car?

Yeah. But, let’s sit here.

Here?

Yeah. And just talk.

That’s all you want is to talk?

Yeah. I’ll listen. You talk. Tell me about yourself.

I’m a schizophrenic from Calgary.

I see.

I’m an alcoholic.

OK.

And I have a son that was taken from me. She drank her ale quickly. Opened another bottle. That’s all. What about you?

I’m a bipolar divorced man driving a Dodge around North America. I laughed. I sleep in my car. I eat in my car. I pray in my car.

She twisted another cap. I’m sorry, she said. Truly. I’m sorry.  Sounds like we have a lot in common.

Yes. I would say so.

She downed the last beer and stood up to kiss me on the cheek.

What is your name? I asked.

Kathleen.

Kathleen. You take care, Kathleen.

You, too.