#no but i cannot express how much nova actually does want a laugh (he's a contrary lil shit who wants to subvert expectations /affectionate)

[explodingstarlight]

a typical thursday

[+ a lil bonus below ✨]

i couldn't be at peace until I drew it sorry-

Xor belongs to @snailsnaps and Nova belongs to me (obvi ajsjsj)

[timetospy]

Could you please a 00q fic based on the sex scene from The Thomas Crown Affair remake?

This was quite fun, thank you for this prompt! I hope this is what you had in mind

Obviously NSFW, so under a cut

Contents: 00Q, anal sex, rimming, blowjobs, Bond is a charming asshole - but what else is new

Bond sets the Walther down on Q’s desk, and Q can’t quite believe what he’s looking at. It’s in one piece. One whole entire piece. He looks from Bond to the Walther and back again.

“Well done, Double-Oh-Seven,” he says, and the words want to stick in his throat. It’s not like Bond needs the compliment - the man’s ego is inflated enough as it is.

“Thank you, Q,” Bond purrs and flashes that infuriating grin that sets fire to Q’s insides. He saunters out of the Branch and Q watches him go. There are already rumors flying, despite Q doing his level best to keep it professional, and Q has quit pretending he doesn’t find Bond unbearably attractive. Doesn’t mean he’s slept with the arsehole, but he allows himself to look his fill, and James puts on a good show - hips swinging just so under his suit jacket.

Q tears his eyes away as Bond rounds the corner toward the exit and picks up the Walther. He frowns. Something’s wrong with the gun, but he can’t quite tell what it is and just as he’s about to pull the slide back, an alarm sounds. Hildebrand shouts something unintelligible over the immediate din in the bullpen. Q sighs. Of course there would be a metaphorical fire on the other side of the globe right at this moment. He sets the Walther aside and gets to work.

It isn’t until well after he’s supposed to have gone home that Q once again takes up the Walther mystery. He hefts it in his hand. He immediately notices the balance is off, and idly pulls on the slide to check the chamber. The slide doesn’t move, not even a millimeter, and Q scowls. He tries taking the weapon apart, but none of the parts will loosen. It’s when he’s trying to dislodge the clip that he figures it out: it’s been super-glued together.

Q’s face twists in disgust. He’d actually complimented that...that cock-mongering bastard and it had all been a ruse, a put-on, a farce. He slams the gun down onto the table, and on impact it shatters into its component parts.

“Where is that sack of shit? Right now, where is he?”

The bullpen jumps, scurries satisfyingly at his words.

As Q glares at his screen, waiting for a small green blip to appear over a map of London, an idea begins to percolate in the back of his mind, and the glare becomes a terrifying grin.

***

The blonde is a terrible conversationalist. Bond’s not really listening to her, but he doesn’t need to. It’s the same old drivel, and he makes appeasing noises when he notices a pause, and she’ll go home later that night and tell her friends what a wonderful listener he was.

He thinks about taking her to a hotel, then dismisses it as a bad job. She’s pretty, of course, but looks don’t make up for everything. She is a decent dancer, though, so there’s that. He tries not to think about what it would be like dancing with Q instead. The man would never let his professional guard down long enough to do something so base as dance.

Bond almost feels bad about his ruse with the Walther. Almost.

But hearing those words from Q’s lips had been so utterly satisfying, the resulting temper tantrum was likely worth it. And now that he knew what it sounded like, maybe he’d be tempted to try and actually bring his kit back in one piece.

“What’s so funny about Chanel retiring seafoam as their on-trend color?” the blonde asks, frowning in a way that Bond is certain she thinks is cute, but only manages to make her look constipated. How unlike Q, who manages to look like an affronted housecat even when livid. His lips curl into a smile at that.

“Did I say something funny?” the blonde asks, her sharp tone pulling Bond from his thoughts at last.

“Did you mean to?” Bond replies smoothly. He’s not looking to get a laugh out of her, but does anyway. She must think he’s trying to be charming.

He spins her across the dance floor of Maury’s Piano Bar - it’s on the near side of pretentious, with a wine list longer than his arm, all dark wood and polished brass and burgundy leather. But he knows the owner, and Ned is always glad to have him on the dance floor, and Bond is happy to oblige when he’s in town and in the mood. He has to admit the ensemble tonight is excellent. It’s a pity the company doesn’t measure up to the music. For the four hundredth time, Bond wishes it were Q instead of this blonde in his arms regardless of how utterly daft the idea is. There’s a lull in the music, and the blonde stops moving so suddenly Bond’s concerned for half a moment that he’s trodden on her foot. She spins away, and he can barely believe his eyes.

Q stands in front of him, dressed to the nines in a hunter green sport coat that follows the line of his body, and Bond’s jaw tries to drop. He keeps it in place with a force of will that he wasn’t sure until that very moment he possessed.

Q cocks his head, sizing up the blonde, then narrows his eyes at Bond.

“I’m cutting in.” The blonde’s face contorts, puzzled, and Bond watches her mentally shrug and move to dance with Q, who laughs. “Not you. Him.”

Bond’s eyebrows raise, and the corners of his mouth turn up. He reaches for Q, and now the blonde really looks confused. God knows what she’s thinking, but she scoffs and stalks off the dance floor just as the music picks up tempo. It’s a slinky bossa nova and Bond can’t quite believe his luck as Q steps in to take the blonde’s place.

“Did you really think you’d get away with it?” Q asks as Bond spins them towards the center of the dance floor.

“And here I thought it would make you laugh,” Bond says. Q’s graceful, light on his feet, following Bond easily through the steps. Bond’s ghost of a smile sticks in place, an easy expression in this moment, countered by Q’s cracked glare. Amusement sparks in Bond’s eyes as he realizes Q’s enjoying himself despite everything.

“I cannot imagine you ever making me laugh,” Q mutters as Bond pulls him in close after a spin-out.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Bond says into Q’s ear. “Either that or you have a terrible sense of humor.”

“There is nothing wrong with my sense of humor, merely your idea of a joke.”

Bond laughs at this. Q is willing to match him barb for barb, and Bond loves a verbal shoot-out nearly as much as an actual one.

“This little dance we do,” Bond says, picking up the pace of his steps, “poking at each other, looking for the chinks in the armor. Does it excite you? Is that really the game you want to play?”

Bond spins them and dips Q without warning, and Q’s eyes widen, his pulse throbbing in his neck and Bond wants to taste it, wants to taste it so badly that he can feel the want in the back of his throat. The only way to clear it is to speak.

“Or…,” Bond can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe they are doing this. How many times had Q danced through his thoughts, and how many times had Bond convinced himself it would never be? And now here he is, in his arms, heart beating wildly, “do you really want to play something else?”

He watches as Q’s adam’s apple bobs once, twice as he swallows and Bond lifts him slowly out of the dip. Their eyes lock, and the moment stretches on, and on, and Bond is drowning in bottle-green.

Q’s staring at him, all the animosity drained out of his expression, and something else, something more heated, fills his eyes.

Bond doesn’t know who moves first, but in the end it hardly matters - they kiss, hard and desperate. Q grasps at his neck, Bond’s fingers tangle in Q’s hair. The music fades from his perception, and the entire world is in Q’s mouth. He advances a step, hands moving from Q’s hair to his shoulders and Q clutches at his lapels. They break apart with a gasp, and Bond suddenly realizes what’s just happened. His eyes scan the crowd, taking in the reaction. It’s an old habit. There are a few stares but none are angry. His hackles recede to the background again, and he guides Q to a secluded corridor behind the dance floor by his lapels.

Q’s hands slide under Bond’s jacket, hot and insistent against his sides, up his back, and James groans into Q’s perfect neck and takes his first delectable taste. Q gasps, arches his back, and Bond can feel Q’s erection pressing into the crease of his thigh, and every muscle in his body tenses at the touch.

Q’s lips are nearly as warm as his hands - which have travelled south and are kneading at his arse as he presses Q against the wall, his elbows bracketing Q’s head as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss…

***

The ride to Bond’s flat is an exercise in torture - hands roaming, whispers in the dark, all while Bond darts through traffic like a heathen, causing more than one cab to blare its horn. This wasn’t what Q had had in mind when he went to go confront Bond. He’d meant to berate him, perhaps humiliate him, not end up arching into Bond’s hand like a teenager as they speed through another amber signal.

Bond pulls to a screaming halt outside his flat. It’s smack in the middle of Notting Hill, and Q lets out a low whistle. Bond smirks at him as he opens the door and ushers Q into a frankly ostentatious entry hall.

“Sometimes,” Bond says as he locks the door behind them, “a place like this just...falls into your lap.”

“Know the former owner, then?” Q asks as he runs a finger over the marble statue resting comfortably in the curve of the stairway.

“Intimately,” Bond murmurs, and Q turns to see him loosening his tie. There’s something about the motion, about the intent of it, that sends lightning shooting through Q’s gut, and he bites his lip as he shrugs out of his sport coat and lets it fall from his shoulders to puddle around his feet.

He knows what happens next, and he knows it’s the worst idea he’s ever had. But dammit, if he only has this one chance, he’s going to take it. He’s managed enough missions to know that Bond is no slouch in bed, and more than once he’s wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that intensity.

He’s about to find out.

Bond stalks towards him like a great cat on the hunt, suit jacket falling to the floor as he approaches, and god damn, no man has a right to look that good in braces, but he does. His fingers are numb as he fumbles at the buttons of his shirt. Too slow, he’s too slow, but somehow his shirt falls open as Bond takes the last step, closing the distance between them, and Bond’s hands, calloused and rough and so, so warm slip between fabric and shoulder and slide his shirt to the floor.

Q takes a breath and his eyes slide shut as Bond bends to taste his neck just over the pulse point. Bond crowds him against the wall, and Q pulls at his undone tie, sliding it from his collar with one smooth tug, then working on Bond’s buttons.

Q can barely concentrate as Bond’s wicked mouth ghosts across his shoulders, collarbone, neck, ear, the almost-touch of his mouth maddening.

“I’m still,” Q hisses as Bond’s teeth find a tendon in his neck, “upset about the gun.”

“Mmm. But you know, you wouldn’t be here but for that.”

Q groans as Bond tweaks a nipple, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to refute Bond’s logic at this point, and Bond knows it.

“Shut up and get on with it,” Q says instead as he ruts against Bond’s leg, desperate now for something more, something less, anything at all.

“Tsk. So impatient. All in good time, Q.”

And god, the way he says that letter makes it sound filthy, and it’s on the tip of Q’s tongue to give him his name, just so he can hear how the vowels sit in Bond’s mouth, see the way those lips shape the sounds. He kisses Bond instead, hard and demanding, biting at those perfect lips.

Bond lifts him, backing him against the statue, settling their hips together so their still-clothed cocks slot against each other with delicious friction, and they both groan into the other’s mouth. Bond backs away, Q wrapped around him, and takes a few steps toward the stairs, stutters, then lays Q down on the floor of the foyer and tugs his trousers and pants down to his ankles with one swift pull.

This isn’t Q’s first time around the block, but here, with Bond above him, he feels stripped in a way that has little to do with clothes. Bond is every inch the predator here, hungry, prowling, cornering his prey - which Q suddenly realizes he is. It’s a heady feeling, being on the receiving end of such a stare. He wants to know what it’s like to be devoured.

Q kicks off his shoes and wriggles the rest of the way out of his clothes, stretching his arms out above his head, schooling his face into a semblance of vulnerability.

Bond trails a finger down the center of Q’s chest, pausing to tweak his nipples, drawing out a hiss, then toying with the nest of dark curls at the base of Q’s leaking cock.

“Do you always play with your food?” Q asks as Bond’s hand trails around to Q’s hip, thigh, knee, everywhere but where Q wants him.

“Only when it plays back,” Bond replies, and bends to kiss Q’s belly.

When Bond’s mouth finally, finally closes around his cock, Q nearly comes on the spot. He only hangs onto his dignity by a shred, digging his fingernails into his palms as Bond swallows him down, again and again. It’s like his very soul is being siphoned out of his body through his cock, but he doesn’t want it to be over--not like this, not yet. With every last ounce of willpower he has left, Q pushes Bond away, presses his advantage, and rolls Bond onto his back. Q climbs over him, smoothing his palms over Bond’s chiseled pecs. They really are as solid as they look, and Q is fascinated. Lips follow fingers across Bond’s body, tasting the skin he’d forbidden himself to touch for so long.

This isn’t anything but self-indulgence, but Q gave the ruse of professionalism up the minute he let Bond lead him across the dance floor. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, really, although Q’s continually surprised at Bond’s interest. His off-the-clock companions tended to be, with very few exceptions, female, and Q had chalked it up to a dead-end crush. Obviously, he was blessedly wrong. For once.

A small voice in the back of Q’s mind tells him that the whole thing is a set-up to get Q exactly where he is, but a much larger part doesn’t much care as he eases Bond’s thick cock out of his trousers and flicks his tongue over the tip. The bitter tang of precome and salt are the most potent aphrodisiac - as if he’d needed more - and it’s Q’s turn to swallow Bond down. His lips stretch pleasantly around Bond’s girth, and he moans as he opens his throat.

It isn’t long before Bond is pushing Q off and rolling him over, backing him up against the bottom of the stairs. Over and over, back and forth, they make their way upstairs trading pleasure for pleasure, the gasps and groans and cries echoing through the foyer as they climb step by step to the landing.

Q lands on his arse on the top step with a grunt, Bond just below him. Their breath comes in great heaves and both are covered in a sheen of sweat. Bond crawls towards him up the stairs, grinning. Q scrambles away, backwards, and Bond lunges, misses his ankle by a hair’s breadth, and falls with a grunt to the carpet. Q takes his chance. He jumps up, and before Bond can regain his composure - what’s left of it - Q sits astride him, knees in his armpits. To Q’s shock, Bond raises up on hands and knees, and crawls forward. Q hoots and slaps Bond’s arse.

“Giddyap!” he calls, and laughter bubbles up and spills out of his mouth. It’s utterly ridiculous and somehow also completely erotic, this impromptu rodeo. Bond rears back, and Q holds tight, laughing all the harder for Bond’s embracing the role.

Bond all but prances into a room that looks remarkably like a study that opens into a bedroom behind, but they don’t quite make it to the bed before Bond finally pitches Q headfirst into a club chair. He’s still laughing madly as he scrambles up into a seated position in the chair and peers at a bottle of water on the occasional table. He swipes it, takes a long drink, then pours some out over Bond’s head as he looks up at Q.

Bond pushes a hand up through his hair, wiping the water out of his eyes, and that predator’s gleam re-ignites in the glacier-blue depths.

“Did you think I was done?” Bond asks, pulling Q’s hips forward.

“I’d rather hoped not,” Q replies glibly, but swallows, ruining the effect.

“By the way,” Bond says, kissing at Q’s inner thigh. “I did make you laugh.”

The observation, apropos of nothing, pulls another bark of laughter from Q, and Bond grins again.

“I always get what I want, in the end,” Bond says.

“And you want me?” Q asks, sitting up and running his fingers through Bond’s hair.

Bond doesn’t answer, but he does pull Q forward with a jerk and lifts his legs in the air so that Q is on his back in the club chair, Bond once more between his thighs. But this time, he’s not swallowing Q’s cock. He dips lower, tasting Q’s hole, and Q groans, long and low, wriggling closer to Bond. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

It isn’t long before a lube-slick finger joins Bond’s tongue, then a second. It’s been a while, but Q is half-drunk on pleasure, and Bond’s fingers find just the right spot to set Q dripping, and within a minute he’s begging with all but his voice.

Bond grins, pulling his fingers out and leaving Q feeling empty for a moment while he rolls on a condom and slicks himself. Q has about three seconds to catch his breath, then Bond is pressing in, torturously slowly, stretching Q wide. It burns deliciously, every nerve alive to the point of breaking.

Q scrabbles at the armrests of the chair, needing something to cling to as Bond starts to move inside him, slowly, pushing deeper and deeper until their hips meet. Bond’s eyes slide shut, and he groans - the sound echoing what Q would never admit: ‘I’ve wanted this for so long; finally, finally.’ Bond pulls out and the loss of him so soon after being filled is maddening. Q reaches for him, and Bond is already there, lifting him out of the chair. He swipes an arm across the coffee table behind them sending papers and magazines scattering in all directions, then lays Q down.

There’s a moment of pause, Bond hovering, gazing down at Q, and the expression is fleeting, momentary. Afterwards, Q isn’t sure he saw the way his eyes softened at all, can’t recall the specifics enough to know it wasn’t his imagination that smoothed the lines around his mouth, eased the tightness in his shoulders. But in the moment, it is everything, and Q lets his expression slide open, accepting. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, for this moment Q allows Bond to see. It will likely get him into trouble - Bond isn’t one for sentiment - but there’s little Q can do to stop it.

And in a flash, the moment is over, and Bond hooks one of Q’s knees over his shoulder and fucks into him without preamble, staring Q down with those impossible blue eyes. It’s every fantasy Q’s ever had, every daydream, every late night in the shower.

A bright mottled flush spreads across Bond’s chest as his rhythm speeds up, staring into Q’s eyes and blinking the sweat out of his own. It’s intense in a way Q hasn’t known. This molten steel ribbon twisting between them, tying itself in knots at the base of Q’s spine, and every thrust, every grunt of effort, every drop of sweat ties another knot, pulling them closer and closer and closer.

It’s all so much, Q can’t catch his breath. He tries to hang on to Bond, but his fingers can’t find purchase, and he has to settle for the edge of the coffee table - his knuckles go white. Skin slaps skin as Bond snaps his hips, lost to his own pleasure, now, chasing it inside Q.

Q wraps a hand around his own cock, matching Bond thrust for thrust, and the steel ribbon creaks at the breaking point. Bond shifts his angle ever so slightly, brushes Q’s prostate, and the ribbon snaps. A soul-deep groan oozes out of Q’s mouth like lava, and come splatters across his chest, pools in his navel, dribbles, finally, over his fingers. Bond isn’t far behind, and as Q shudders with aftershocks, Bond stutters to a halt, teeth clenched, buried to the hilt inside Q.

They rest for a moment, and Q turns to kiss Bond on the cheek as he catches his breath.

***

The next morning finds Bond seated at the kitchen table wrapped in a brown dressing gown with well-worn elbows, the morning paper, and a steaming mug of coffee. Q wanders in, his own dressing gown distressingly white and fluffy and new. Q hopes it’s a failed Christmas gift, and not an indicator that he’d been expected. He yawns and takes a seat opposite Bond, nabbing one of the other sections of the paper and wrinkling his nose when he discovers it’s Sport.

“Good morning,” Bond says, and nudges a second steaming mug towards Q, who picks it up suspiciously and sniffs it, takes a sip, then another, eyes wide in surprise. It’s Earl Grey, fixed just how Q likes it, and he narrows his eyes across the table.

“You didn’t just pop out to the shops this morning for tea, did you. I know you don’t keep it - you tell me often enough how you loathe ‘grass water.’”

“Well, I do hate tea, and no, I didn’t pop out to the shops this morning.” Bond’s response is casual to a fault, and he folds the paper over to peer at Q with that self-satisfied smirk.

“Dammit, I hate being a foregone conclusion.”

Bond, that infuriating arsehole, simply grins and passes the toast.

[friend-clarity]

The Men Who Walked Away

Prime Minister Justin Trudeau strode to the podium outside his home in Ottawa and said so many soothing words to a country reeling from the tragedy that had unfolded in Nova Scotia the day before (April 20, 2020). “We stand with you and we grieve with you. And you can count on our government’s full support during this incredibly painful time,” Trudeau said to the people of Nova Scotia. It would have been fine had the PM left it at that. Instead, he used this tragedy to start talking about his gun-control plans before the RCMP had even confirmed that all the bodies from this massacre had been found.

It’s quite the contrast to his reaction when asked several times last week about the blame China’s government should face over its actions and, at times, inactions that led to the spread of the coronavirus and the deaths of nearly 1,600 Canadians and growing. https://torontosun.com/opinion/columnists/lilley-trudeau-gives-china-a-pass-then-targets-gun-owners

Let’s recall the earlier "Montreal Massacre". 

M Lépine was born Gamil Gharbi, the son of an Algerian Muslim wife-beater, whose brutalized spouse told the court at their divorce hearing that her husband "had a total disdain for women and believed they were intended only to serve men." At eighteen, young Gamil took his mother's maiden name. The Gazette in Montreal mentioned this in its immediate reports of the massacre. The name "Gamil Gharbi" has not sullied its pages in the thirteen years since. ...

To return to Gloria Steinem, when might a fish need a bicycle? The women of Montreal's École Polytechnique could have used one when Marc Lépine walked in with a gun and told all the men to leave the room. They meekly did as ordered. He then shot all the women.

Mark Steyn, December 5, 2019

Friday December 6th marks the thirtieth anniversary of the "Montreal Massacre" - a grim day in 1989 when fourteen female students at the École Polytechnique were murdered by a man known to posterity as "Marc Lépine". Much followed from that terrible slaughter, including various useless "gun control" measures - and the formal annual commemorations that, three decades on, are attended by as many eminences as Remembrance Day or Dominion Day. The men present in that classroom are now in their mid-fifties; the women are not. I was far from home that December and was not back in Quebec until Christmas. And so I accepted the official narrative of events - until, that is, a few years later, when I looked into it myself.

At which point I marveled at how the Canadian state had succeeded in so thoroughly imposing a meaning on the slaughter that is more or less the precise opposite of what actually happened. I've written about it over the years, although my comrades in the Canadian media complain every time I do so, as if any questioning of the official fairy tale cannot be permitted. Here's what I said on the thirteenth anniversary, in The National Post of Canada on December 12th 2002:

I loathe the annual commemorations of the Montreal Massacre. I especially dislike the way it's become a state occasion, with lowered flags, like Remembrance Day. But, in this case, whatever honour we do the dead, we spend as much time dishonouring the living -- or at least the roughly 50 per cent of Canadians who happen to be male: For women's groups, the Montreal Massacre is an atrocity that taints all men, and for which all men must acknowledge their guilt. Marc Lépine symbolizes the murderous misogyny that lurks within us all.

M Lépine was born Gamil Gharbi, the son of an Algerian Muslim wife-beater, whose brutalized spouse told the court at their divorce hearing that her husband "had a total disdain for women and believed they were intended only to serve men." At eighteen, young Gamil took his mother's maiden name. The Gazette in Montreal mentioned this in its immediate reports of the massacre. The name "Gamil Gharbi" has not sullied its pages in the thirteen years since.

Ah, well, I would bring that up, wouldn't I? Just for the record, I'm not saying that M Lépine is representative of Algerian manhood or Muslim manhood. I'm saying he shouldn't be representative of anything -- least of all, the best efforts of women's groups and the convenient gloss of that pure laine name notwithstanding, Canadian manhood.

This spring, there was an attempted gun massacre at the Appalachian School of Law in West Virginia. But, alas for the Appalachians' M Lépine, there were two gun-totin' students present who were able to pin down the would-be mass murderer until the cops arrived. Allan Rock stepping forward to recite the relevant portions of the gun registry requirements would have been far less effective. Generally speaking, when the psycho shows up and opens fire, your best hope is that there's someone else around with a gun to hand -- a situation Canadian law has now rendered all but impossible.

Extreme cases make bad law, and just because it's a cliché doesn't mean the Liberal Party of Canada can't take it to hitherto undreamt of heights. Our disarmed Dominion will be the first jurisdiction on the planet with a one-billion dollar gun-registry. It was supposed to cost two million, but, as Dr. Evil learned in Austin Powers, these days that's just chump change, they'll laugh at you. No self-respecting government plan should cost less than ONE BILLION DOLLARS!!!!! 

According to police, the gun registry is officially 25 per cent inaccurate. I'd figure that makes it unofficially 40 per cent inaccurate. But last week, while cynical Liberal bigwigs were openly boasting that this record-breaking government fraud would just be another one of those things you hear about for a couple of days that then mysteriously vaporizes somewhere over Shawinigan, the radio call-in shows were full of concerned, earnest, reasonable, moderate Canadians saying that, even if it did cost a billion, it still "sends the right message" on gun control. Which is just as well, as it'll still be sending the right message when it's up to two billion...The gun registry is symbolic not of Canada's predisposition to mass murder, but Canada's predisposition to mass suicide.

But the gun-registry boondoggle is just big-government business as usual. In a certain sense, the men present that day in Montreal were more profoundly disarmed. From my book After America:

To return to Gloria Steinem, when might a fish need a bicycle? The women of Montreal's École Polytechnique could have used one when Marc Lépine walked in with a gun and told all the men to leave the room. They meekly did as ordered. He then shot all the women.

Which is the more disturbing glimpse of Canadian manhood? The guy who shoots the women? Or his fellow men who abandon them to be shot? For me, the latter has always been the darkest element of the story. From my column in Maclean's, January 9th 2006:

Every December 6th, our own unmanned Dominion lowers its flags to half-mast and tries to saddle Canadian manhood in general with the blame for the Montreal massacre -- the fourteen women murdered by Marc Lépine, born Gamil Gharbi, the son of an Algerian Muslim wife-beater, though you wouldn't know that from the press coverage. Yet the defining image of contemporary Canadian maleness is not M Lépine/Gharbi but the professors and the men in that classroom, who, ordered to leave by the lone gunman, obediently did so, and abandoned their female classmates to their fate -- an act of abdication that would have been unthinkable in almost any other culture throughout human history. The "men" stood outside in the corridor and, even as they heard the first shots, they did nothing. And, when it was over and Gharbi walked out of the room and past them, they still did nothing. Whatever its other defects, Canadian manhood does not suffer from an excess of testosterone.

Your average Western feminist lobby group doesn't see it that way, naturally. "The feminism I think of is the one that embodies inclusivity, multiculturalism and the ability to change the world through the humanity that women do bring," says Stephanie Davis, executive director of Atlanta's Women's Foundation. "If there were women in power in representative numbers -- 52 per cent -- I think that the World Trade Center would still be standing."

That's a familiar line. If only your average Security Council meeting looked like a college graduating class, or that room at the École Polytechnique after the men had departed, there would be peace on earth.

I don't think so. Look at the current rape statistics under one of the most thoroughly feminized regimes on earth - the Government of Sweden. More from After America:

To those who succeeded in imposing the official narrative, Marc Lépine embodies the murderous misogynist rage that is inherent in all men, and which all must acknowledge.

For a smaller number of us, the story has quite the opposite meaning: whatever M Lépine embodies, it's certainly not (if you'll forgive the expression) Canadian manhood.

In 2009, the director Denis Villeneuve made a film of the story - Polytechnique. "I wanted to absolve the men," he said. "People were really tough on them. But they were 20 years old... It was as if an alien had landed."

But it's always as if an alien had landed. When another Canadian director, James Cameron, filmed Titanic, what most titillated him were the alleged betrayals of convention. It's supposed to be "women and children first", but he was obsessed with toffs cutting in line, cowardly men elbowing the womenfolk out of the way and scrambling for the lifeboats, etc. In fact, all the historical evidence is that the evacuation was very orderly. In real life, First Officer William Murdoch threw deckchairs to passengers drowning in the water to give them something to cling to, and then he went down with the ship – the dull, decent thing, all very British, with no fuss. In Cameron's movie, Murdoch takes a bribe and murders a third-class passenger. (The director subsequently apologized to the First Officer's home town in Scotland and offered £5,000 toward a memorial. Gee, thanks.) Mr Cameron notwithstanding, the male passengers gave their lives for the women, and would never have considered doing otherwise. "An alien landed" on the deck of a luxury liner – and men had barely an hour to kiss their wives goodbye, and watch them clamber into the lifeboats to sail off without them. The social norm of "women and children first" held up under pressure.

Today, in what Harvey Mansfield calls our "gender-neutral society", there are no social norms. Eight decades after the Titanic, a German-built ferry en route from Estonia to Sweden sank in the Baltic Sea. Of the 1,051 passengers, only 139 lived to tell the tale. But the distribution of the survivors was very different from that of the Titanic. Women and children first? No female under 15 or over 65 made it. Only five per cent of all women passengers lived. The bulk of the survivors were young men. Forty-three per cent of men aged 20-24 made it.

"There is no law that says women and children first," Roger Kohen of the International Maritime Organization told Time magazine. "That is something from the age of chivalry."

If, by "the age of chivalry", you mean the early 20th century.

As I said, no two maritime disasters are the same. But it's not unfair to conclude that, had the men of the Titanic been on the Estonia, the age and sex distribution of the survivors would have been very different. Nor was there a social norm at the École Polytechnique. So the men walked away, and the women died.

Whenever I've written about these issues, I get a lot of e-mails from guys scoffing, "Oh, right, Steyn. Like you'd be taking a bullet. You'd be pissing your little girlie panties," etc. Well, maybe I would. But as the Toronto blogger Kathy Shaidle put it:

When we say 'we don't know what we'd do under the same circumstances', we make cowardice the default position.

I prefer the word passivity – a terrible, corrosive passivity. Even if I'm wetting my panties, it's better to have the social norm of the Titanic and fail to live up to it than to have the social norm of the Polytechnique and sink with it.

~The above includes material from Mark's book After America. If you disagree with Steyn and you're a member of The Mark Steyn Club, then feel free to have at him in the comments.

[williamlitt]

Moonshine

Today is Sunday. A peaceful mid-June afternoon, the sky is clear and there's a soft heat in the air. I've started my backpack Eurotrip a week ago. Last night was my third in Zagreb. But while getting up this morning, I got the feeling I was done here. So I just picked my bag and booked a ticket for the next train to the seaside.

Now I'm boarding on the wagon, and the seat assignment from my ticket is occupied. I had been going out quite often these last days, socializing a lot. So in this moment, I'm just feeling like isolating myself a bit. I see a free 1-seat spot in the corner. I sit there, anticipating a quiet and studious journey. It's the natural way to continue a quite introverted day. A few meters away, there's a sweetest spot though: some 2 & 2 facing seats, with a wide table in-between, perfect to write on my notebook more comfortably. Unfortunately, some random guy is already set-up there, and I happen not to be really in the mood for talking.

Okay, fine. Let's go anyway. At least I'll be enjoying the landscapes from a wider window.

Unavoidably, some conversation starts flowing with my new neighbor, a freshly graduated chilian backpacker. His name is Javier. Unexpectedly, we immediately get on very well. He had been traveling for a month already. We are quickly skipping the small-talk part, and his epic little stories end up reviving my empathy.

The train is almost ready to go. A large group of (probably) british guys have already filled up the other part of our wagon.

I haven't paid much attention to any newcomers until then. But when three (probably) foreign girls settle right next to us in the parallel row, I raise my head. Among them, one is really easy to notice. She has long and straight dark hair, blue eyes, a pale skin, a graceful silhouette.

Her appearance is rather pleasing to me, but there's something else. Perhaps the way she moves into space smoothly, her way of being present or something. She chooses the seat facing mine, but in the parallel row; so I have her on my right diagonal, not even 2 meters away.

It's not taking long for the train to depart and soon my conversation with Javier quiets down naturally ; so I pick my notebook while he grabs something to read.

The girls are chatting together, in some lenguage hard for me to identify. I'm apparently taking some notes, but these are kind of random. I cannot get a single word of what they are saying, but I love the sounds of it.

Then, I feel like trying to guess, so I clear my throat. « Hey; by any chance are you from the Baltic area? »

They look at me gently, and answer they are from Finland : Helsinki and Turku.

To fill the following silence, I go for the first genuine compliment popping up. « Finnish is a lenguage that is... » but I realize mid-sentence that using the word « beautiful » would be too generic and lazy, so I pause and look at her specifically - it then strikes me how stunning she is - I forget about the whole Finnish lenguage compliment thing - and just go like « ... special. »

My sentence altogether probably ends up sounding pretty weird, but well. What's there to answer? not much. We all get back quietly to our business.

Some minutes pass by. Then all of a sudden, she asks Javier and I if we have a pen to lend. He immediately answers « For sure! » but I'm quicker... I proudly offer her « a multicolor pen! », as if it was some seriously fancy item. She smiles.

I observe her writing down stuff on what seems to be a diary. She is charmingly expressive when writing, playful yet serious. Meanwhile, I'm also taking some notes. Kind of useful ones this time.

This lasts quite a while. And when she hands the pen back to me, I turn my head to find her eyes - they are captivating - clear blue but somehow dark - kind but untamed.

She says « thank you » kindly. I'm thinking « you're welcome » while looking at her, but no actual word comes out of my mouth (even though I have half-opened it). It's okay though, I feel she got what I meant.

The journey continues peacefully. Everyone is getting a bit sleepy. I lean my head on the window, watching the green landscapes go by. By now, she has moved out onto the two empty seats behind Javier, her back on my window. I can see her hair in the narrow space.

I'm thinking of the many hours left to spend on the train; of the many times I had pathetically watched my chance slip away; and of stuff being all so ephemere anyway, etc.

As logical conclusion, I go and rip off a piece of paper. The note I write on it is basic: I'm asking for her name while giving her mine. I fold it into a tiny paper plane. Then, I discretely throw it to her, above the seat in front of me.

While awaiting for a reaction, I start conditionning myself to appear all cool and casual about it, even though I'm experiencing a little rush of stress.

Several seconds later, her face appears from in-between the front backseats. She's looking straight at me. Her expression is a mix of shock, interrogation and amusement. It seems like she is mentally asking « are you serious?! »

The intense eye contact we have makes me forget about all my plans. I have the impression I am talking to someone I've known for a while already.

So just like that, this little game suddenly feels like the most obvious thing to do. I spontaneously smile, shrug and rise my eyebrows, mentally answering "why not?"

Then her face suddenly lights up; she agrees with a genuine smile.

It doesn't last long until I see her answer rolling down to my feet, on the same tiny paper.

Her name is Eva. And she's enquiring about what is up.

I tell her I'm going to the city of Split. She tells me they also are. I tell her about my backpacking plans. She'd been around before and gives me a few tips.

Now and then, to make sure new notes are well-received, we glance at each other discretely, in-between backseats and window.

The notes are progressively growing in length. By now, an official mailing channel has been established below the seat next to Javier. At some point, he notices something is off, and looks at me interrogatively. I say I'd explain later, then wink at him.

Little by little, we start to get to know each other. I learn she's fond of some old French photographer I had never heard of ; that she's been especially into Finnish music recently ; or that her grandma loves bossa nova.

Time and landscapes fly. Now there's only one hour left to roll. Soon our little game would be over and we would both go our way. She's still there but I'm already thinking about how to see her again.

We've already exchanged contact infos to keep in touch « in case we hear of any cool musical event happening in Split ». But I start doubting about whether that's enough or not. Without any further calculation, I draw two little squares to check on the next note. I'm openly wondering « what would be the coolest thing between: a) keeping the notes flowing; and b) just starting to chat casually ».

She answers drawing a third little checked square which says « or you're very welcome to come and sit next to me ».

Then I feel half-enchanted, half-tensed. Everyone around us is pretty quiet at the moment, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to tell her. On the notes, I had the time to think, to choose my words correctly; there it would be total freestyle.

But now it's to late for hesitations. So I stand up, move toward her, offer her my hand to shake, say out loud in a jokingly formal voice « nice to meet you », and just sit next to her.

She is close now. Her pupils are dilated. She smiles at me in such a manner that my brain stops operating correctly.

It's relevant to say something else now, right ? I don't know. I have to look away to regain cold control.

« So... what do you do... like... in life ? », I ask her finally. She says she's a singer and an actress back in Finland. Plenty of new interrogations pop up in my mind. How did she get into this ? What are her inspirations ? How is daily life like ?

She is answering each of my questions briefly, while always asking back about me right away. That's funny, I think. I had been so used to meet people who enjoyed it more listening to themselves.

I can feel her confidence. She speaks with a clear and expressive voice. And the more I look at her, the more I can't help but feeling a bit impressed. She probably meets up with lots of cooler-than-average guys everyday. I'm feeling like I need to stand out, somehow.

It's harder to connect with people when we're in our head. And that's where I'm getting back right now. I'm thinking about what would be the best story to tell next, how could I tell it so subtly I'd appear cool and humble at the same time. I want all my questions and answers to be unexpected. I can't stand any small-talk or generic statements anymore.

I don't manage to really look deep into her eyes, now. She would see right through me. The conversation keeps going, but I've become more focused on playing my part correctly than actually connecting with her. I'm hearing myself telling stories I've told before. I notice all the little mistakes in my speech. She smiles and sometimes laughs sincerely, but I'm slowly starting to dislike this egocentric character I'm into.

Our relation is now not as natural. Topics are dealt with fast. There are short silences. She kindly also does little efforts to keep it alive. Not all my answers are as deep or funny I wish they were. I fear to be boring. And as I feel there's no harmony anymore, my confidence is diminishing.

We have been talking for more than half an hour, but I've become slightly doubtful. What if I had been staying by here side for too long ? What if she'd also like to have a chat with her friends now ? I really hate being the clingy guy. We've already exchanged contact infos, that's time for me to go.

While I'm telling her I'll get back to my seat, I'm struggling to say a proper goodbye. It's kind of abrupt, there's no particular reason for me to suddenly leave her. And she may interpret it as if I haven't been enjoying her company ; this perspective makes me feel awkward. I'm trying hard to tell her in a cool way that we may « team up » tomorrow, for « some adventure » at « some beach ». But the way I'm saying it makes me realize she could interpret it as if I was feeling lonely and looking for friends. I've been loving my solo backpacking trip so far, and the idea of her thinking otherwise instantly kills the last bit of confidence I had left. And while I'm finishing the most confused sentence ever, she looks at me with so much kindness and comprehension that I foresee an unrepairable failure, and my goodbye ends up sounding as sad as a farewell.

Back at my spot, I sit down, motionless, defeated. Damn it, I usually never get that vulnerable, why did it have to be this way at this particular moment? Well, I had a little chance, I screwed up. Truth is I didn't expect she'd affect me that much ; this doesn't happen with the girls I'm used to meet. It's alright, I accept the lesson, and will learn from it.

A moment later, the train hits the final destination. We're all reaching for our bags and stuff. We agree to go for a little beer with Javier. And without really believing they'd be interested, I also politely suggest this idea to Eva. She says they'd first settle down at their flat, then keep me in touch if they feel like it. I'm kind of pessimistic.

To pack my things, I take my time. I don't want to be that stingy guy who coordinates to stick around. Out of the train, I see her glancing at me one last time. I can't help but smile with a mix of politeness and sadness. She answers doing the same.

It's 10 pm. The air is warm, humid. It smells like the sea. The city is a charming old port, the tiny houses there have beige stone walls and reddish tiles. There are little lights everywhere. Lots of people are hanging out at restaurants and bars. The atmosphere is festive.

We're walking down the street toward our hostels. Javier is laughout out loud when I reveal to him the whole train story. « So... are you gonna see her again ? », he asks. I don't think so.

Today is Tuesday. I had been texting with Eva since yesterday. She told me that tonight they'd probably be going out for some drinks on the beach. I was « welcome to join » them, and I could « bring some people along » if I wished to. For sure, I told her I was « in ».

I didn't have anyone to bring, though. Javier had gone away in the morning to some nearby islands, so I said I'd be coming alone.

Today was a hot, sunny day. I've been chilling at the beach all along, walking by the shores, swimming, sunbathing.

Right now, the evening is perfect. It's still warm, the sky is clear, the moon is really big.

She just kept me in touch : they have bought some wine and are about to leave their flat to the city. Although she warns me she'd have no internet there. I try to call her but it doesn't work. She says she may use her friend's phone to reach me later. Alright, let's do that.

The streets are filled with enthusiastic, often fancy-dressed people. All bars and restaurants are full, music is blasting everywhere. I've bought some beers at the shop and I'm looking for a nice panoramic spot by the sea.

Down at the harbour, there is a large and wide dock crowded with people sitting on stone blocks, drinking. These are mostly young people, many different lenguages are spoken and the mood is nice. That's where I'll hang out for now, I guess.

At the end of dock, I'm watching far away toward the horizon. The water is peaceful. I have my earphones on, playing loudly uplifting tracks.

Time goes by. I'm enjoying spending time alone, I feel I can do whatever I want to. I may think about all my favorite things while never being interrupted. I'm lightly grooving to my music, without caring that much about other people around.

It's getting late now, and still no news from the girls. It's okay though, I've got my mind made up. Doubtlessly, I had appeared socially unskilled in the train's last conversation. She probably felt that me joining up solo would be a risky addition in terms of group dynamic. Plus, her two friends certainly wanted to spend some time altogether and avoid having their friend subtracted by some random guy. That's all fair to me, I got it, I don't mind.

At some point however, I decide to leave the dock to go for a little walk around. Otherwise when I'm sitting and drinking for too long I get sleepy.

These sweet vibes got me in a good mood. The perfume of the sea, the tropical atmosphere, the happy people around. I don't need anything more, honestly.

I'm taking the main alley by the hearbour, eastward. It's where all the fanciest bars are situated. All the terraces and alleys are packed with loud people eating, drinking.

I've been walking for not even 100m and some element of the whole display suddenly puzzles me. On a small stone block, I see three girls sitting. They have their back to me, so I get around and pass them by to check their faces. It's them.

I'm glad to bump into them randomly like that, of course. And I'm not even mad they haven't tried harder to contact me. Okay, maybe a slight bit, in the deep of the emotional side of my mind. But on a rational level, I totally get it.

The fact that I had been kinda disregarded somehow eases me down. Now I feel expectations from me are pretty low. I don't have much to lose, nor much to prove. It's a bit of a paradox, but now I don't care that much. I'm just welcoming things as they come. And it feels good.

They appear positively surprised, I greet them all cheerfully. The two other friends are named Hanna and Anna. The meet-up is all benevolent and smooth. They had been sitting down here for a little while, drinking wine from a bottle, but were willing to move around. They agree to go and see that same dock I just came from.

I still have my mind set on Eva, obviously. But I really want her friends not to feel ignored, I sincerely want to connect with them as well. So I'm paying a careful attention to all of them equally, with the same curiosity.

We find a free spot at the end of the dock, which offers a wide panorama on the sea. I'm opening my second beer. I feel we've all quickly found a way to get along. It's natural. I like their openness and simplicity.

The lenguage topic is quite lively. They are teaching me some Finnish while I help them with some  French. Hanna knows a whole lot of numbers, and her pronunciation is quite decent.

Beyond the usual classics, I'm feeling like teaching them the essential sentences to to survive in the French hood, just in case. They are enthusiastically practicing three different ways of asking « how is it going ? », gangster-style. I try to persuade them that it's the most useful thing there is.

The conversation is flowing all pleasantly but soon, all of our bottles are dry. We're all on the same page, it would be best to keep on getting hydrated. We'll walk by the eastern shores of the harbour, and see if we can find a nice location for drinking supplies.

While we hit the road altogether, Eva comes right by my side. I'm sensing an early form of magnetism in the air. And I'm glad to see how easy it is to connect with her now. I'm profoundly feeling each thing she means, and it seems to be mutual.

Anna listens to classical music, but for dancing she likes radio hits. We spend a little while talking about music composition with Hanna, she's also into it and uses a different software than mine.

We're passing by some night clubs, and many bars which are all kind of look-a-like to me. It doesn't take us long to settle down at one of the terraces by the sea.

The waiter there argues that for cocktails, it'd be nice to go for the « local experience ». So be it. I'm picking some kind of a Mojito derivative. It's not bad.

We're now discussing bout party traditions worldwide.

To my dismay, I just found out that scandinavians actually don't start at 6pm to finish and go to bed early. That was just a legend.

I'm telling them about the mexican drinking game culture, advocating for their top-notch expertise in that field of research.

The timing feels right to go and try some.We'll just go for that app-based one. Turn by turn, it gives a randomly selected little challenge to one of us. It's quite basic, but it offers a nice playground to learn new things about each other.

I appreciate the girls' enthusiasm to try and do it all fully. Anna demonstrates a rather skilled fluidity in her dancing moves, while the struggle is real between avoiding some forbidden words and remembering not to answer any of Eva's questions.

At some point, I'm selected for the « staring challenge » ag ainst... Eva. I'm immediately ready to go and last forever, while, according to her prompt reaction, she seems to be quite motivated as well. But Hanna foresees the everlasting situation to come, so she adds right away « alright, so the first person to blink loses as well ».

Eventually, this game turns out to be quite rewarding for the most prominent sinners among us. It helps to be knowledgeable in liquor brands, to have been involved in fights already, or other types of improper behaviors.

It's getting late by now. We're about the last people on the terrace. The waiter comes around and tells us the bar is about to close. We'd better be on our way.

I'm standing up, stretching, while talking to Eva. And when I turn and step toward her, she does the same. We end up standing in front of each other in quite an usual short conversation distance. I'm so close to her face I could nearly touch her. We aren't saying in anything special, but all I see is her eyes, wide open, fascinating. I'm out of order again.

Hanna's voice wakes me up. Where shall we go now ?

It's passed midnight but the air is still cool. We're all in a light mood. The idea of chilling a the beach is pleasing everyone.

There's a charming and quiet one I know, but it's by the other side of the harbour, on the western shores. It will be a bit more than an half an hour walk.

Hanna warns us she had been texting to some Finnish friend who'd like to come along. He'd catch us up nearby, at the central alley of the harbour.

We're off in that direction, by the sea. Anna and Hanna are leading the way, and I'm walking beside Eva. I'm with her 100%. And I forgot about the whole group dynamic thing. Little by little, I'm letting the flow take over.

Our meeting point is down a large alley with palm trees on a side. Lots of festive people are passing by. The girls just picked a bench to sit on and wait.

I'm also sitting comfortably, my arms spread on the bench's backrest. She's so close I can feel her thigh subtly touching mine. She's a bit worrying I'd get bored just waiting. I'm telling her « it's all good, I'm all happy here. » As long as she'd be around, I thought, I didn't care that much about what was happening and where.

In some matters, sometimes, I happen to be kind of shy. Especially, when it comes to do the first physical steps. All typical approaches usually seem to me a bit too cliché, too soap-opera style. I find it hard to know the right timing to do the right thing the right way, etc. There's always a probability of unpleasant rejection, and I particularly dislike feeling invasive.

But now, for once, I'm pretty confident. I have the impression I can read her, more or less. How she's feeling, what she wants. And in this moment, I'm sensing rather positive vibrations.

Therefore, all casually, I'm delicately laying my hand on her shoulder. But surprisingly, it feels as if it was the 1000th time I'd be doing that. It's the tiniest thing, the most simple touch. But still, it does light me up inside for a second.

Eventually, the Finnish guy shows up. He has some kind of an indie-artsy-skater-style, if that means anything. Hanna said he was a pianist. He just told me his name but either it was too complicated, either my mind was still somewhere else. Anyway, he takes a few cans of beer from his bag and offers one to each of us. We start talking and he seems like the nicest guy ever, easy-going and chill. In a deep and dark corner of my mind, I can't help but wonder why would Eva like me specifically, among all others. This thought soon vanishes, though.

On our way to the beach, everyone is happy. Anna and Hanna are having an engaging conversation in Finnish with the new guy. And I'm walking behind with Eva.

The alleys start getting way quieter, especially in the area we're going to. The western beaches are kind of less popular, less artificial somehow.

I'm not paying much attention to the surroundings, if we're going the right way or not. I'm just enjoying the walk, her company. I like the lower-than-average tone of her voice, and her subtle Finnish accent. I like the way she listens carefully, all ears.

When I finally look up to check what's up with the other guys ahead, I see our group has enlarged again. Two new guys are now walking along. Getting closer, they greet us. They are both swedish. They seem pretty friendly, cool people. They admit still being a bit tipsy after their night out. They say they'd be glad to join us for our little beach quest.

Soon, there starts a private joke session, scandinavian style. I'm not getting it all, of course, but I sometimes laugh anyway just because it sounds funny.

At some point, the tallest-blond-muscular swedish guy comes around Eva playing it all smooth operator. It's quite obvious he's not indifferent to her. He's doing his little show, but I don't mind.

She's far from falling for it though, I'm not surprised but it's still nice to witness. I'm charmed by her assertiveness, by the way she implicitly dismisses his advances.

We are now reaching the rocky side of the shore. There are cliffs, old small stairways carved in stone, and a lush kind of tropical vegetation.

The night is clear, all so peaceful. The moon is gigantic.

The winding pathways we're going through are pretty narrow. I take her hand. It feels like something normal we had been used to for a while already. We're now getting more comfortable in that double dialogue, between spoken and silent things.

The beach we had been searching for soon appears to us from the distance. As far as I could remember, it was much further away.

It's shaped like a large bay. The shores are made of sand and tiny rocks. It's all calm, we're the only people left.

There's a fresh breeze in the air now, it's kind of late. I think we'll eventually just sit by the ocean and enjoy the view. The girls didn't bring their swimming suits, and I believe I'm the only one with a towel.

Yet, as an evidence, Eva starts taking her clothes off, so do I, so do the others.

The tallest swedish guy hurries to go first. I'm second. The water temperature is survivable. In relative darkness, we have to step carefully among the tiny rocks.

I'm advancing slowly toward the unlimited horizon. And when the sea level reaches my waist, I'm diving in. It's delightful. I'm turning around to lie on my back, looking up to the starry sky. I have an impulsion to swim away from the shore, far. So off I start drifting away. But then I see her, coming along. Despite everything, I'm still genuinely amazed she cares.

Our friends are now quite a long distance from us. We still hear them laughing while splashing water to each other.

The sea level is still below my chest when she stops and stands just in front of me. The moonshine reflects white flickering halos on the calm waves. I didn't know the night could be so bright naturally. I see her face clearly, her hair is wet, waterdrops run on her shoulders. I'm admirative. This makes me recall some cool cinematic scene from a fantasy video game I used to play years ago. Hopefully, no one can read my thoughts.

But then I find her eyes. She is giving me that same magnetic look, inflexible, penetrating.

My thoughts are fading away one by one. No analysis anymore. No judgement. My mind is silent.

The train, the city, our friends, everything feels far appart now. Time is like suspended. The scenery and the sounds become dim, and she's the only one left. Attraction is slowly and inevitably pulling me toward her. When we eventually collide, it feels like a tiny firework inside. Her skin is silky, and a bit cold. She's light, delicate.

Now I'm taking her hand, and lifting it up to invite her for a dance. It makes no sense but it feels just right. She slowly sways round below my arm, amused. The sea is playing its quietest and most hypnotic tune.

We're drifting in circles around each other, floating in every way. My senses are all awaken. There's no need to explain, no need for words, it's all balanced.

Apart from the fresh breeze blowing gently, there are some colder streams swirling underwater. Two seconds away and it's pretty cold, two seconds closer and it's not cold at all.

On the ground however, there are some rather spiky things among rocks. And it really hurts like hell when we step on them. It's as if we were dancing on a minefield. We both find it funny though ; the way we alternate between solemn grace and sudden sparks of agony.

I have no idea how long we had been in the water, but it seems like our friends are now moving back to the beach. We'll catch them up.

In the deep of the night, we're all dripping wet, frozen, yet cheerful.

I see she's shivering, so I'm wrapping her in my towel. I look at her, and we both know it's a whole new paradigm now. Rules have changed. Walls have fallen.

Our feet are slightly bleeding from few tiny wounds, « but it was worth it. »

It's time to head back home. My left foot is severely aching, which causes me to limp a bit while walking. She grabs my arm. We're now leading the way together, through the rocky pathways.

We aren't saying anything particular. Silences don't feel awkward anymore. There's no fear to do too much or not enough. I just know I'm feeling good, in her presence simply.

The swedish guys are sleeping in their boat, which is parked by some dock along the way. We leave them there, saying we'd keep in touch.

Not much further away, we reach our crossroads. It's almost 3am. They'll go back to their flat and me to my hostel, and it's all natural that way. I'm telling to Anna and Hanna it was nice to meet them, while sincerely meaning it. I don't even have the time to think about how to say goodbye to her, she reaches to me for a kiss. One last charming glance, and she turns away for good.

Now I'm the only one left by the harbour's shore, limping around. I'm kind of stunned. I hadn't anticipated any of that.

The night is still clear. The streets are completely desert. I'm taking a deep breath of the sea. In this moment, I don't want or lack anything particular. I'm just glad to be here, to do each little thing coming my way.