Emma
I met Simon outside the bar just as a light drizzle started to fall. He had a clear plastic, dome-shaped umbrella with him.
“Rude,” I huffed, smoothing it down. “It’s the weather’s fault.”
Inside, the bar was warm and amber-lit, with little fairy lights draped over the shelves of spirits. Everything was the colour of beer and polished wood. We found a small table under a framed poster for an indie band and slid onto the stools. The place smelled of fried foods.
“What are you drinking?” he asked. “And I swear if you say ‘whatever’s cheapest,’ I will exercise my right to be dramatic.”
“I was going to say just a sparkling water,” I told him, having a look at the menu. “But since you’ve threatened performance art, I’ll go for a margarita.”
“Bold,” he said. “I’ll do the same, but with the rim salted like a proper snow plough.”
He weaved through the crowd to the bar and flashed a smile, tilted a shoulder and said a word to the bartender who nodded. No matter where he went, he always seemed to be both a regular and brand new. It was a gift.
He returned with two margaritas beaded with condensation. “The barman says if we want nachos, we should order in the next five minutes because the kitchen is about to explode.”
“Explode?”
“Not literally,” he said. “The game’s about to start. He meant emotionally.”
I took a sip. It was tart and icy, the lime salted enough to bite my tongue. “I don’t want nachos. We’re going dancing after, remember?”
He gulped down his drink and leaned back. “So,” he said, “I promised you quirky Canadian traditions.”
“Yes! Let’s hear them.”
“Okay, number one: milk in bags.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“It’s real,” he said, placing a hand on his heart. “You buy a big bag that contains three smaller bags inside. You put one in a pitcher, snip the corner, and pour. It looks like you’re deflating a cow.”
“That sounds like a prank,” I said. “Like something your older brother tells you to do so he can watch you struggle.”
“The joke’s on you; I’m the older brother,” he said. “And I absolutely made my younger brother do it when he was five. I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when she saw him covered in milk.”
I laughed. “All right. What else?”
“Tim Hortons,” he said. “It’s not just coffee, it’s a cornerstone. Morning, night, road trip, break-up, doesn’t matter. Everyone ends up there.”
“I’ve seen the cups,” I said. “So it’s basically a national ritual.”
“Exactly. Like double-doubles and Timbits. Or saying sorry when someone else bumps into you.”
“You Canadians apologise automatically.”
“True,” he said. “Sometimes we say sorry for things that haven’t happened yet. It’s preventative, like using sunscreen.”
“You’re being silly,” I said, and smiled at him over my glass.
“And then there’s cottage season,” he continued. “Which is when half the population disappears every Friday to a lake with a dock and a blue cooler and four hundred mosquitoes that have done CrossFit.”
“Do you actually call it ‘cottage season’?”
“Of course,” he said. “We also say toque for beanie and loonie for a one-dollar coin.”
“Also, Thanksgiving is in October,” he added. “We like to pregame.”
“October,” I repeated.
“And ketchup chips,” he said, with deep seriousness. “And butter tarts that are basically national treasure. Nanaimo bars which will change your life. Oh, and Hockey Night in Canada. Very capital letters.”
“Ah,” I said. “Here we go.”
“You say that like you’re bracing.”
“I am,” I said. “Because I know you’re going to claim hockey is the beating heart of your people, and then you’ll make me watch twenty lads in helmets fighting over a puck.”
He was about to argue when the bar erupted.
It wasn’t just a cheer, but a collective roar that came from the television over the bar.
The screen exploded with white ice and a blue line, and hockey players were flying across it like meteors.
People stood, clapped, and whistled. Someone was even banging his pint glass on the bar in a rhythm like a train starting.
“Case in point,” he said, pointing to the TV with his glass. “Hockey is VERY popular. Capitals. Italics. Underline. It’s in our water. You won’t be able to avoid it.”
I took another sip and listened to the commentators talking at an unbelievable speed. “I don’t know anything about it,” I admitted, watching a player slide across the goal line. The bar went crazy again, a wave of sound washing over us.
“I don’t know enough about the rules to explain them to you,” he said, and shrugged. “I mean, there are rules like offside and icing, but honestly? Sometimes the whistle blows and I just cheer along with everyone else.”
“That seems dangerous,” I said. “What if you’re cheering for a penalty?”
“It’s still community,” he said, and grinned. “Plus the players are very nice to look at.”
“Ah,” I said. “The truth emerges.”
“I’m not blind, Em,” he said, spreading his hands. “Those broad shoulders, the easy smiles – half of them could walk a runway if they weren’t skating.”
I tried not to laugh into my drink, but failed. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I am extremely believable,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll acclimatize you. You’ll start saying forecheck in your sleep.”
“That sounds like a medical procedure.”
“Only for the opponents.”
On screen, the camera swooped down and a goalie dropped to his knees in a butterfly of pads.
“Okay,” Simon said, finishing his margarita with a heroic slurp. “Enough hockey for tonight. It’s nearly time.”
“For?”
“Salsa,” he said, eyes bright. “The Candela awaits.”
“I’m not sure if I remember the steps,” I said. “It’s been ages.”
“No worries. We’ll warm up. We’ll keep it easy. And if everything goes wrong, we’ll fake it with confidence.”
“Is that a Canadian tradition too?” I asked.
“It’s a human tradition,” he said. “But we do excel.”
We put on our coats and stepped back into the light rain. The Candela was just a few streets away. As we walked, Simon held his umbrella over us again, like a tiny personal greenhouse.
The club’s sign was glowing warm white above two black doors that vibrated with the bass from inside.
When we stepped inside, the sound became a living thing, with congas shaking, horns cutting through the night, and Spanish voices I didn’t understand but could feel down my spine. Simon’s grin became even bigger.
The place was already buzzing with energy: couples twirling across the floor, skirts flaring and heels clattering.
Conversations drifted around us, but the music dominated, pulsing through the speakers and into the crowd until the whole room was beating as one.
The atmosphere swept me up so quickly that I didn’t even feel nervous.
Simon leaned in close enough that I could hear him over the band. “See? No pressure. Only us and the music.”
“You say that,” I called back, “but if I trip over my own feet, it’s on you.”
We draped our coats over a couple of chairs pushed up against the wall, set Simon’s umbrella aside and headed straight into the thick of it.
The music surrounded us, with steady, low drums. The floor was alive, and stepping onto it was joining a conversation in a language that I’d forgotten, but suddenly remembered how to speak.
Simon leaned in so I could hear him over the trumpet. “Okay, Em. Game plan: we don’t try to be perfect. We just try to have fun. Deal?”
“I can do that,” I said, smiling. My nerves weren’t as bad as I thought they’d be. The music was too loud and bright for me to worry too much.
Simon offered his hand with a dramatic bow, and I rolled my eyes but took it anyway.
We slipped into a space between two other couples.
He found the rhythm right away, his shoulders relaxed, and his feet moved like he was born to do this.
I fell in, but I was a beat behind at first. Then my muscle memory kicked in.
Step, step, and back. Step, step and back.
It was there. A little rusty, maybe, but I thought I was doing okay.
“So, you have done this before,” he said, grinning.
“I told you I had,” I replied, letting myself spin. My balance wobbled once, but Simon steadied me with a light touch on my elbow. “It’s coming back.”
“See?” He beamed. “Told you your feet were clever.”
We moved together, turning with the crowd. Couples blurred into flashes of colour – red skirts twirling, white shirts damp with sweat and laughter spiking up louder than the brass sometimes. The whole place was alive.
He spun me again, faster this time, and I laughed, surprised that I didn’t fall. My body simply remembered how to move without overthinking. When the club cheered at some impressive move from a couple nearby, we joined the noise just because it felt good.
“Look at you,” Simon said, a little out of breath. “You’re glowing.”
“That’s just sweat,” I teased, though I knew what he meant. My heart was racing, my face was warm, but a genuine joy had settled in my chest.
The song slowed down for its final beats, and we finished with a simple turn, getting back into the rhythm like we’d planned it. I joined the rest of the floor clapping for the band.
“Next song?” he asked, hopeful.
I smiled. “Of course.”
The next track kicked in, sweeping us back in. My hesitance was gone, replaced by a giddy freedom. Every step seemed easier now. Every turn belonged. Surrounded by swirling lights and pulsating music, I was right in the middle of it, feeling alive.
Simon spun me around again, leaning in close. His voice was low but full of laughter. “You realize I’m dragging you with me again next time, right?”
“You don’t have to drag. Just ask.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I was going to anyway.”
* * *
By the time I got home, the drizzle had turned into a fine mist, settling on my coat like icing sugar.
The house was warmer than when I’d left it, as if it had been waiting up for me.
I kicked off my shoes by the door and stood for a moment, listening to the fridge humming and the pipes clicking gently.
My hair still carried a hint of wood polish from the club. I could feel the music pulsing somewhere under my ribs, the rhythm still lingering in my legs. When I closed my eyes I could almost feel Candela’s floor again. For the first time since moving, I didn’t feel like I was visiting my own life.
I dropped my handbag on the sofa and caught my reflection in the dark window. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. Look at you, Simon had said. You’re glowing.
He was right. It wasn’t just the heat of the club or the margaritas. It was something quieter – the lightness that comes when you stop overthinking and just let yourself move.
I poured a glass of water and sat on the arm of the sofa, listening to the city’s night noises drift in through the open window. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere else, a burst of laughter. Toronto had its own rhythm, and tonight, I’d found a way to move with it.
I opened my notebook and scribbled down one line: “Danced. Remembered my feet. Maybe that’s the start of not feeling uprooted.”