“It does,” Imaani said softly. “I’m glad she was there for you.”
Because his father worked logging jobs in the northern Ontario lumber industry, they moved every time a contract came to an end. When he was in sixth grade, Quinn said, his aunt convinced his dad to let him to learn the cello in school.
“I got half-decent at it in high school and holy hell was it a chick magnet.” He felt Imaani’s stomach quake in soft laughter against his lower back. “The trouble was they thought my game with girls matched my musical skills and they were sorely disappointed.”
“Oh, come on,” Imaani chided. “You’re tall and cute.” As soon as the words slipped out of her mouth, she bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean–”
“No, no,” Quinn stopped her. “I haven’t had a beautiful woman tell me that in about 10 years. Please, regale me with more stories of how I’m tall and cute.” He looked down at her lithe, molasses fingers entwined in his pale pink ones.
“I meant,” Imaani laughed, “you could date as many women as you wanted if you made the effort.”
“I’m a 38-year-old band geek, Imaani,” he retorted. “I’m not sure what nightclub caters to this particular demographic.” Imaani laughed even harder. “Besides,” he continued, “I want someone I have a connection with at this point. I don’t feel the need to have kids or anything, but I am way past the stage of picking up women just to get a bunch of phone numbers.”
Another silence fell upon them but this time it was comfortable instead of uneasy. Quinn was relieved to find his soldier had gone back into his barracks, but his limbs were feeling a little strained.
“Okay, my turn,” he said, taking Imaani’s arm off his chest. “Your back will be cold if we don’t switch.” He felt his partner hesitate. “I swear, I will think of Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day.” Imaani burst out laughing and turned over onto her left with Quinn following suit.
“I suppose as the inside spoon I get to tell you my story now, huh?” she asked, moving her hair up and away from his face. The subtle aroma of vanilla oil on the nape of her neck infiltrated Quinn’s brain, but he tried to shake it off.
“Please do, so I can stop imagining one of Britain’s most hated PMs,” he said out loud.
Imaani grinned, pulling her toque more snuggly over her head as he pressed his front to her back. She placed her hand atop his as it rested on her belly, and then told him about how her family immigrated from Kenya to Canada when she was a child.
“Remember when I said I was in ESL but spoke English pretty well?” she asked. “I also happened to be the only kid in my kindergarten class who could read, and I was reading books at the third-grade level. But somehow it was deemed I needed the extra help, over kids who couldn’t even recognize letters yet.”
“Sounds about white,” Quinn nodded, remembering how unfairly the few Hispanic and Asian kids were treated when he was in public school several decades ago. “I’m guessing you had to work much harder than them to get basic praise from your teachers, too?”
“Sounds like you had non-white friends growing up,” Imaani replied, relieved that Quinn was empathetic instead of offended at her bringing up racial inequity.
“They were the other band geeks,” he murmured. “At least I was white; they were alienated in worse ways than I was. It dawned at me eventually that every one of us turned to music because of one or another form of loneliness.” Quinn felt Imaani slightly tense up. “Full pun intended, but did I strike a chord there?”