“… YEAH YEAH THEY DID THIS like, super scientific study that shows that period pain is actually like not that bad. Like, it’s like a quarter of what a man feels if he gets … y’know.”

Stella ran her cloth across the glass table, wiping spill and crumbs. She looked to the manchild’s date, wearing loud pink sandals and nodding. Their eyes met. Are you ok?

“Can I get another?” the girl said instead, tapping her empty Whiteclaw with Influencer nails.

“Ah. Me too.”

“Sure,” Stella said. “Same thing?”

“Always.”

The bar was a downtown fixture for college students, a huge second floor patio with an indoor that was barely a hallway. Ronnie laboured behind the bar, his aproned gut spilling into the ice bucket as he filled beermugs with froth. He cracked open the raspberry seltzers without taking his eyes off the Jays game.

“Thanks.”

“Oh come fucking ON.”

Stella bumped into the boy on her way back outside, and he didn’t even notice. He was tall; that explained something, at least, but his pale blue eyes were soulless. He smelled like prescription drugs and body spray.

“Ah, sorry,” Stella said, putting the drinks on the table. “You actually can’t smoke here.”

The girl flicked her Bic. “Where, then?”

“Down the stairs. To the right. Off the corner.”

“What?”

“I know. Ontario laws, right?”

“Fuck me. Where?”

Stella explained again, but it still didn’t click. It would be easier to show her.

The drizzle had turned to rain. “Oh, not here, actually. You can’t smoke under an awning. It has to be at least nine metres

…