Maxou's existence
When he could barely talk, Maxou was already telling lots of stories and asking plentiful questions. "What is your house made of?" he would turn to me while we watched the psychedelic Québécois children's series Passe-Partout -revived all the way from the 80-90s. "Brick, stone or wood?" He was two when Sophie and I took him to Marché Jean-Talon and though he didn't see me again until he was three, he clutched onto that memory and the chocolate covered bananas we ate at the market like some ethereal doudou. Our crush, you see, was simply mutual. Before Maxou and Romane ever existed, Sophie and I were biting into burgers and fries on Avenue du Parc. It was summer 2005, we were on an escapade from the Rebel Music Americas tour and its opening night concert at Kola Note. "I don't feel any biological clock ticking. Mayo?" She was planning a trip with JP to Mexico and why not, perhaps to Turkey. Free. Carefree. No squeaky objects on the floor in th...