We end up on the rooftop. The foldable chairs are already there. The alcohol is warmer than air; the moon floats up cold and yellow, an icecube dropped in a drink. Someone goes downstairs and comes up wrapped in a blanket. Clouds resemble pillows at first, then quilts. The longer I stare the more stars there are.

Three hundred and sixty degrees of city, measured in steeples and trees. There are so few tall buildings in this part of Montreal. We watch silhouettes gather on neighboring rooftops, lit cigarettes like shifting constellations. From balconies brimful with noise, low voices overflow and meld together like colours in a twilight sky. In a condominium by the mountain, windows light up one by one; by the time I finish my beer they begin flickering out again.

A calmness and a forbearance. The sun bides its time, the moon doesn't mind, and none of us have reason to complain, as we are not going anywhere.