Carrie has been drinking but she is not overtly drunk. In the back seat of the taxi she speaks lucidly about her work and the stress of her lifestyle. She tells him that since most of her income comes from freelance writing jobs and all her deadlines are self-imposed, she has the constant pressure of knowing that if she doesn't work hard enough, fast enough, and consistently enough, she won't make her rent. Evans is only half-paying attention. On one level he is listening and talking, but on another he is trying to imagine how he might explain this situation and justify himself. How can he do this? He should be at home, punishing himself with the guilt of the things he has done, the people he has hurt.

Nevertheless, the taxi carries them to a three-storied house on a downtown side street. Evans offers money, but Carrie pays the driver and they get out. Carrie unlocks the front door and leads him up and into her second floor apartment.

She turns on the desk lamp, illuminating the living room. A silver laptop lies dormant amid heaps of books and papers on the desk. On the floor are stacks of books and CDs, but except for the desk and a pair of chairs, there is no furniture. One doorway connects the living room to a darkened kitchen and another to the bedroom.

"Have a seat," she says, removing papers from the chair in front of the desk. She hangs her jacket on the back of the other chair. "Do you want to put on some music?"

"Sure." He looks at the stack of CDs next to an old, paint-spattered stereo while she disappears into the kitchen. Most of the CD cases are empty, but he finds a Lou Reed hits collection and puts it in.

"Nice," she says from the kitchen as the melancholy chords begin. "Party music." She comes back into the room with two large jars of water. "Glasses are dirty," she says, setting them down. She sits and pulls a half-smoked joint out of a desk drawer. "Do you smoke?"

He sits. "Yeah. Well, not much. I guess."

"We don't have to."

"No, no," he says. "Yeah. I'd like to."

She pulls her lighter out of her jacket pocket. "You know, I read today that statistically, Canadians smoke more pot than anyone else in the world. Like, sixteen percent of adults smoke at least once a year. That's about three percent more than The Netherlands and like, six percent more than Jamaica. Can you believe that? More than Jamaica." She puts the little roach between her lips and lights it.

"Yeah, that's surprising," he says.

"You seem kind of distant," she says. She holds the smoke for a moment then lets it out in a long blow. "Are you okay?"

Our man smiles. "Yeah, I'm cool," he says. "Sorry. I've been a little weird for a while."

She passes the joint. "Weird how?"

He shrugs, takes the joint, smokes. "A bit down. I don't know. My head hasn't been in a good place for a while. I've made some decisions I might live to regret."

"Like coming here tonight?"

"Um, no. I didn't mean that." He looks at her. "I'm glad you called. No, other stuff, before I came to town." She presses him for details, but he steers the conversation to her work.

The night wears on. Eventually she invites him to lie down and they retreat to her bedroom. He pulls off his clothes and gets on the bed, passively waiting for her to join him. He watches as she undresses, climbing onto the bed in her underwear and a tank top.

Carrie closes in on him and puts her lips to his. They kiss, mouth open. She melts onto him, slipping her arms around his neck. They push against each other, snuggling together, hugging, legs intertwined.

In her arms, Evans feels safe and warm. He loves the closeness. He loves having this person holding him tight. He feels like Carrie is taking care of him, protecting him from himself and his own bad feelings. For a moment the feelings of worthlessness and loneliness ebb away and he feels safe.

* *

Our man Evans made love to Carrie, but it did not go well. Snuggling tight against each other, the final articles of clothing were pulled off and hands ran freely over smooth pale skin. They kissed and touched and held, enjoying each other's company, but at the critical moment, Evans could not maintain. Inside of her, he felt himself flagging. He tried to reassure himself, telling himself that everything is fine, everything is great, you're great, she's great, this is great, but it failed. He tried to carry on, but soon rolled off her and apologized.

She lay next to him and put a hand across his chest. They kissed for a while longer, shared a cigarette and a glass of water, and eventually went to sleep.

* *

He wakes up early with a buzzing headache, Carrie's arm still on him. He wants to go but he doesn't want to wake her, so he lies with her arm across his chest as the sun rises and the room grows bright.

Her face is smooth, relaxed. Evans feels a welling of emotion as he watches her sleep. It's emotion that he doesn't want. Sadly, he wants to be focusing on Trish and deciding whether or not he did the right thing by leaving her. He doesn't want his life further complicated by feelings for another girl.

On the day he left, he caught Trish unaware by coming to her apartment in the middle of the afternoon, during a time when he was usually at work. He knocked and she let him in. Without even sitting down he told her flat out: "This isn't what I want. I don't want to get married, and I'm sorry, but I don't want to be with you."

Her face clouded with confusion, hurt and anger and the shouting began, through which he remained passive. When she asked questions he tried to give simple and honest answers. "Yes, I love you. No, I can't stay with you. Because I'm unhappy. I don't know why, but I can't continue like this. No, I'm not seeing anyone else. I don't want any other girls. I really just want to be alone. No, I won't change my mind. I don't want to be here."

They were there for hours. At times she cried and he held her. At other times she screamed at him and slapped him. He turned the other cheek, and eventually left. He returned to his parent's house, packed clothes into one bag and his journals into another, wrote a brief note, and went to the bus station. On the way he stopped by his job and told his manager that for personal reasons, he wouldn't be able to work there any longer. They shook hands, and three hours later that part of his life was behind him.

When Carrie finally stirs, our man Evans remains still. She opens her eyes and looks at him, then rolls over and looks at the clock. "Oh god," she says. "I've got to get going."

"Sure." He slips out of the bed, knowing what she really means: you've got to get going. His clothes are on the floor, and he dresses quickly.

"Sorry about this," she says. "I'm supposed to go and see this gallery thing this afternoon."

"That's cool," he says. "I need to go anyway."

"Did you want coffee or anything before you go?"

"Oh, no thanks," he says. "I'll have some later. I should go home and get ready for work." He knows the best thing to do right now is just get out of there. He knows she wants him to leave. She took him home drunk and the sex was bad. Shame, both for his poor performance in bed and for going with her in the first place, makes him want to leave.

When his back is turned she slips on her robe and follows him out into the living room. He finds his jacket on the chair and puts it on.

"I had a really great time last night," she says.

Sure you did, he thinks, but he looks at her and smiles. "Me too."

"You don't have my number, do you?" She runs her fingers through her hair to straighten it. The windows in the living room are covered by heavy layers of improvised curtains, but even so, she looks fresh faced in the morning light.

Our man smiles again, certain she is asking out of a sense of obligation. "No, I don't think so."

She gets a piece of paper from the desk and scribbles down her name and number. "Here."

"Thanks," he says, and slips it into her pocket. "Have a good time at the gallery thing."

"Probably not," she says. "Give me a call."

He smiles and leaves. It's a long walk home, and for most of the way he wonders whether or not he should have tried to kiss her goodbye.