Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice and Andy rounded the terminal's curb and the car rumbled softly in park. The men exited the vehicle and hugged around the front of it.
"Thanks for the ride, Bergy. And don't be a grinch; promise me you'll do something great with Guillaume and Gretta for the New Year? Boston's First Night is a lot of fun, and if you bundle up no one can tell who you are," Andy's face broke into a great smile as he pointed at Patrice, making him nod in promise.
"Yeah, I promise. We'll do something," Patrice laughed as he extended his hand in a small wave to his friend. He wished him a safe flight and fell into his car again. He ran a hand through his thick, short hair. He didn't know why, but he felt a bit overwhelmed; like he had a lot to do for some reason, even though he had a five day holiday from work.
The snow was bad, and as he drove home from Boston Logan, he considered potentially having to return to pick Andy up from the airport again if his flight was canceled. He did enjoy the drive, though. He didn't mind the roads in his Audi--it had all wheel drive--and he didn't mind the quietness of it all, or the empty streets. In fact, he quite liked the time he had alone to let his thoughts wonder. He tried to sort out what was going on in his mind; he would catch himself smiling, but would then become frustrated with himself for being distracted. He couldn't put his finger on it; something was occupying his mind, and before he knew it, his seatbelt was dragged across his throat, both hands were wrapped around the wheel, and his mind was reeling in an attempt to catch up with his body's reaction.
The tires skidded to a stop and he heard the roar of the slush on the road.
He had almost hit her.
She stood in front of him, frozen, eyes wide and hands at the ready at her side. She was in her black peacoat with the golden buttons, and her scarf was wrapped around her neck again. This time she also donned matching mittens.
He had almost hit her.
Before he could understand it all, he was out of his car and apologizing profusely in French and English and any other kind of apologetic gesture he could imagine.

It took her a minute, but when she caught her breath, she placed both mittens over her heart and took a deep breath and exhaled in a laugh.
He looked at her in awe and silence. He then breathed out a laugh too, and the air around him condensed into a thick fog.
"Please, I'm so sorry. Can I take you somewhere, get you out of this blizzard?"
"Uhm..." Was all she could manage. She lifted her mittens to her head, and just kind of took in the wave of relief that was overtaking her.
"Uhm... sure."

You're going to kill yourself. And this poor girl. Patrice thought to himself. Jamie sat before him at the local Dunkin' Donuts. Unfortunately with the bad weather, the tea shop where they had seen one another the day before was closed. She was biting her lip again, her mittens stacked on the side of the small plastic table, her little pink fingers wrapped around her styrofoam of hot tea.
After some time, she smiled and looked up at him. "Don't spill this cup, eh?" She joked in French.
He held the cup halfway toward his lips; blushing, he set it back down on the table and shook his head.
"That was so embarrassing." He muttered.
"No, no," she laughed. "I mean, not really."
He raised an eyebrow to look at her, aware of how red his cheeks were.
"Well, I mean, maybe a little," she confessed. He laughed and shook his head again.
"Not as bad as nearly running me over, though," she continued to play.
He covered his face with his hands and laughed. He didn't remember ever having this much trouble talking to anyone before, although, he supposed, it had been a while since he had had the time for a girlfriend.
"I'm joking," she cooed in French. He made eye contact with her again. "I noticed you swore in the Coop when you spilt your coffee. Are you from Quebec?"
"Yes, I grew up in L'Ancienne-Lorette. Are you also from Quebec? I can tell by your accent."
"I'm from the city," she said, raising her cup and blowing on her tea. "Do you study here?"
"Study? No. You?"
"Oui."
"What is it you study?"
"Mathematics."
"At Harvard?"
"Oui."
Patrice was breathless and embarrassed. "I quit trying to learn math in Grade 10," he confessed, laughing a bit.
"Oh, but that's when it really starts to get beautiful!" Jamie purred.
"Beautiful?!" He barked. "Not math!" The two shared a laugh.
"I know, don't get me started; I love it." She smiled, biting her lip and placing her tea down. She looked out the window and Patrice stole a look at her neck, her tendons twisting, anchored to her collar bone, unscathed by any kind or mark or bruise or blemish. He suddenly became very aware of the split of skin recovering above his eye. In that very moment, he swore he could feel the white blood cells rushing back and forth, placing and leaving platelets, working overtime with the removal of the stitches two days ago.
She addressed him again, "What do you do for work? Are you employed by the university?"
"Oh no, no. I... I work in the city; not for Harvard. I come here often for the coffee," he gestured to his cup. "Just... not the Dunkin' Donuts kind..."
"And to spill it," she played, slyly. He toasted her and blushed, taking a sip to hide his smile.
"And what do you do in the city? Do you work in l'ambassade?" He adored how she slipped in and out of their native tongue, but hated answering this question.
He dug his thumb into the styrofoam cup for a moment, before answering: "I play for the Boston Bruins; the NHL team."
Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him severely. "No?"
"Oui." He replied, taking a sip of his coffee. Her gaze returned to outside of the window, and he wondered what she was thinking about.