24Teenage Dirtbag || Wheatus
MOLLY
Five Months Later
The sun beats downon my back, making sweat gather at the nape of my neck and along my hairline. I can practically feel my skin turning pink. I realized I forgot my sunscreen as soon as I showed up at the tour starting point, but there wasn’t time to go buy any.
One more hour, I think to myself, as I lead the group across an intersection.One more hour and JP will be here to slather you up with lotion.
Hopefully he’ll bring slushies, too. It’s a slushies kind of day.
I approach our next tour stop and turn my back to the piece of artwork, facing the crowd of about two dozen people that gathers in front of me. They’re a mix of locals and tourists, some who don’t know the difference between a tag and a mural, and others who’ve been grilling my street art knowledge like this is some kind of national exam.
If it is, I know I’ve passed with flying colours.
When I saw the ad looking for volunteer tour guides to help with this year’s Mural Festival, my first thought was, “I could totally do that!” My second thought was, “Oh god, no. I could totallynotdo that.” Being engaging and entertaining in front of large groups of strangers is still far from my forte, but when I mentioned the job to JP, he just wouldn’t let it go.
“You’re alreadymypersonal street art guide,” he’d joked. “You should go for it.”
We do that a lot: encourage each other, push each other to try new things. We always seem to know when to acknowledge each other’s boundaries, and when to nudge each other past them. We lean on one another, but that doesn’t mean we ever forget how to stand on our own.
“This is a favourite of mine,” I tell the group, patting the wall behind me. “This is the Graffiti Grandma.”
I go into detail about the collective behind the piece, and explain that it was done as part of the Mural Festival a few years back. Every year in June, there’s a big ten day festival where artists put up pieces all over the city. There are tours and exhibits, plus concerts from all kinds of musicians at night—one of whom just so happens to be my boyfriend.
I say goodbye to the group an hour later, congratulating myself on being able to answer all their questions, and for how graciously I endured a long selfie session that a family from Quebec City insisted I be a part of. I’m waiting on the sidewalk on Boulevard Saint-Laurent when I spot JP approaching, wearing Ray-Bans and his infamous six pack tank top. He’s also holding two slushies.
“God, yes!” I groan, grabbing one of the plastic cups without even saying hello to him. “I feel like I’m melting.”
He watches with a grin on his face as I slurp several mouthfuls down, moaning as the ice and sugar hits my tongue.
“And you got me a red one,” I say approvingly. “You know me so well.”
“That I do,” he agrees. “I would never be forgiven if I brought you ablueslushie. Now turn around so I can lotion you.”
I do as he orders, still in the throes of ecstasy over the taste of my drink.
“How was the tour?” he asks.
“Great!” I reply. “Even with the heat. Oh, and I think I found a good spot for my next goldfish.”
I’ve been making a tentative foray into the street art scene ever since JP presented me with some cans of spray paint and dragged me out to an underpass to try them out. At first the trend wasn’t intentional, but I always end up drawing a goldfish.
“I can’t wait to see it, JP answers. He squirts a drop of sunscreen on my shoulder and starts to rub it in, lifting my shirt’s spaghetti strap so he can get the whole area covered.
“You really are the best boyfriend ever.” I sigh as he starts to give me a mini massage.
“You like that, baby?” he drawls, leaning in close to my ear. “You like sucking on that slushie while I get you all oiled up?”
I burst out laughing. “Wow, you’re really great at dirty talk. I’m ready to jump you right here in the street.”
His lips brush the skin behind my ear. “Just say when.”
I’ve never met anyone who can do that quite the way he does: one second he’ll have me laughing so hard I sound like a hyena, and then all it takes is a slight shift in his voice before my thighs are clenching and my body is calling his name.
“Don’t pull that on me now,” I warn him. “We don’t have time for shenanigans.”
We’re grabbing a quick lunch before I’m due to pick up Justine at the bus terminal. She’s taking a few days off from her ridiculous summer school schedule to visit me and see JP’s show tonight. This is only his third solo gig. It’s the biggest he’s ever played, but I know he was more nervous for his last show, the one his parents turned up for.I’ll never forget the sight of Marc Bouchard standing in a grimy bar in a button-down shirt with his arms crossed over his chest.
