Time literally whizzed past. We raced around the streets of Vancouver on his motorcycle, ate copious amounts of chocolate ice cream, and drank red wine into the wee hours of mornings.

One day in the summer, Pierre took me to Wreck Beach, where nudity is celebrated and clothing is suspect. Pierre stripped down naked and started playing with his boomerangs. He could throw up to three or four at once. I was having a pretty good time at the nudie-beach with my boomerang boyfriend when nature called.

I stepped into the outhouse, and the stench hit me from above like a rock. It stuck to my skin and sponge-filled my lungs with decades of urine. I took the smell on like an enemy because I had to pee. I felt it on my skin like a hot, wet sweater. The foul stench of pure, ripe pollution seeping through and through that old outhouse -trampled and soiled with dirty, wet feet.

In a dizzy rush, the tinkling was cut short, and I flew open that door like my pants were on fire. But I knew that old outhouse wouldn't let me go so easily. It cloaked my back in a sticky reminder of our remains.

Holding my breath, I made my way back to Pierre's blanket. But Pierre wasn't playing with his boomerangs anymore. I scanned the beach, finally spotting him at the margarita stand. He was giving a back massage to a beautiful naked French woman named Isabelle.

I tried not to let the fire in my cheeks grow into a full-blown jealous rage when Pierre eventually made his way back to me and explained that Isabelle was just very tense and he was just trying to help. At that moment, I was feeling a little tense myself, but I didn't mention it.

Pierre told me there was a party that night at an after-hours bar called The Loft and wanted to know if I would go. He'd raved about this bar many times during that first brief affair, asking me several times if I would go with him. But I was apprehensive. All I knew was it was a place where Vancouver's Frenchies gathered and people danced naked.

I'm not sure exactly what led to our first breakup. Perhaps it had been just one of those spring/summer flings. Or maybe it was the language barrier. But eventually, Pierre walked out my door.

Then the next spring, as the cherries blossomed, I saw Pierre buzzing down the street on his motorcycle. I flagged him down, handed him a cherry blossom and we were back together.

I knew this time around, I'd have to humour him a little more - speak French more often and brave the after-hours bar known as The Loft.

*****

One night Pierre and I were sitting in my room enjoying a glass of Merlot and listening to the fireworks going off down in English Bay when Pierre asked in his thick French accent: "Are you ready to go to The Loft?"

"Sure," I said. Ready as I'll ever be, I thought. We left within the hour.

I hadn't travelled so far east since moving to the coast, so it felt a little as though Pierre was taking me to some sort of alternative universe on the fringes of town. Cars became scarce and hookers lined the road like strands of hair. Pierre reached back and touched my leg.

"We're almost there," he said.

At Boundary Road, he parked his motorcycle in front of a rather desolate looking building. The windows were all shuttered except for those on the fourth floor, but I could see disco lights poking the ceiling through the window of The Loft, and I felt afraid.

We climbed some rickety stairs, and as we reached the top I came upon a sign that read, "CLOTHING OPTIONAL BEYOND THIS POINT."

To my left I saw a dancing man with Tom Petty hair wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers. As I looked around, I realized The Loft wasn't even a bar at all. As it turned out, it was merely an apartment occupied by two French women. One was the same raven-haired Isabelle who Pierre had rubbed at the beach, and the other was a bleached-blonde called Melanie. They made their living throwing parties every weekend.

I made my way to the "bar" in the kitchen and ordered a beer. Pierre left my side and joined a woman named Patrice for a game of Ping-Pong.

I sat on a stool and waited for a social opportunity, feeling more than a little out of place. Everyone was speaking French in various stages of undress. I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and sipped my beer.

Finally a man came into the kitchen wearing crazy multi-coloured pants covered in cartoon pictures of Times Square and the Eiffel Tower.

"I like your pants," I said.

"Thanks," he said with a twinkle in his electric blue eyes. I could tell right away that he didn't speak French and I felt somewhat relieved.

The man's shirt was open to the waist and he had a wide grin. His ears stuck out slightly, making him look like the host of some 1950s variety show.

"Who are you?" he asked. I told him my name. "Yes, but who are you?" he asked again.

I tried to tell him, but I didn't feel like I was getting very far. In fact, at that moment I didn't feel I quite knew myself at all. I stuttered along as I listed my place of birth, astrological sign and highest level of educational attainment.

"Did you notice that every time you ran out of things to say, you broke eye contact?" he asked.

"No, I hadn't noticed," I said.

Then he told me he had just figured out the secret to life. "Do tell," I said as I re-buttoned my shirt.

"Have you ever noticed that the more you know, the less you know?" he asked.

"Yes, I know," I said. Just then I noticed that one of the Eiffel Tower patterns on his pants was positioned in the bull's-eye of his groin.

"It blows my mind we're here on earth," said the man. "It's just so improbable."

I said I couldn't believe it either sometimes. "Imagine how differently those early people saw the world. They believed the earth was flat, but somehow we are now closer to the edge of the earth than they were," I said.

Just then I thought how strange and beautiful and painful it is to be here.

"I know how to build a hydrogen bomb," he said with his wide grin.

"Don't build one," I pleaded.

"I won't, but someone else who knows how to will build one."

The more we know, the less we know. We're going backwards. My head started to spin, so I put down my beer and looked around for Pierre. Eventually Pierre came back to the kitchen/bar, without his shirt, looking as happy as a pig in a blanket. He smiled and started to talk about his freedom.

"It's not like I have all those other responsibilities," Pierre said. "I have no children."

I nodded and said, "You're free. That's good."

For some reason, Pierre's talk of freedom scared me. But then I began to think of my own freedom and remembered that Iris Murdoch said we are all condemned to be free.

The naked man in the sneakers was still dancing. How free he must feel, I thought. I began to grow accustomed to the sight of him jiggling and swaying in his running shoes, and the room circled me and felt safe despite the oddities.

We stayed a while longer until the sun whispered that it would come up soon, its breath appearing as a thin light along the horizon.

When Pierre and I made our move to leave, his Ping-Pong partner Patrice came over to say goodbye and asked him for a ride on his motorcycle sometime.

"I love speed," she said.

Pierre and I walked out into the silent morning. Pierre began to giggle and I realized he was too drunk to ride. We took a walk, Pierre laughing the whole time like a little boy. He told me stories of his youth. He said he was a stubborn child. He did not like chocolate until adolescence. He once had a girlfriend, but he refused to kiss her. His anecdotes made me laugh. How different he is now - always kissing me and feeding me chocolate and brandy.

Pierre picked up a strange plant and nibbled on it. Then he said he was ready to take us home.

We got on the bike and Pierre acted invincible. I felt like a Barbie doll, and as we picked up speed, my arms turned to plastic and I felt myself lose control. The wind felt wonderful, but I wondered if we would make it home alive.

*****

We made it home that morning safe and somewhat sound. I had lived through the night this time.

"Come," Pierre said as he picked me up in his arms and began carrying me up the stairs toward my room. His legs buckled slightly and his breath became laboured.

"I'm too heavy," I said.

"Oh, it ok. I'm strong. I once carry a girl up 500 stairs from Wreck Beach."

"Oh, you are strong."

"Oui, mais, she was 15 or 20 pounds lighter dan you," Pierre said with a laugh as I playfully slapped his face.

When we reached the top of the stairs, Pierre began to whimper in pain. He'd gotten a splinter in the bottom of his foot.

"It hurt so bad, I either gonna die or my foot is gonna fall off," said Pierre in his beautiful French accent. Suddenly the invincible man didn't sound so invincible. "If I die, will you bury me?" asked Pierre.

"Yeah, I'll bury you in the garden," I said.

Pierre grinned and asked, "With the raspberry bushes?"

"Yeah, with the raspberry bushes."

Pierre smiled and looked quite content. "Oh yes, I like dat very much."

I fell asleep with my face in his hair. I knew he was slipping away from me toward his own life and death. But I was slipping too.

I like a man with a sense of freedom, I thought. And I like a man who takes me to the edge of town. It's a classic tale and we all know how it ends.

The more you know, the less you know. Your head starts to spin. You put down your beer. You feel astounded to be here. You ask why. You dance. And then POOF!