tray set beside the till for this purpose. Not quite cold enough, but I’m so thirsty it doesn’t bother me.
Sean’s eyes appraise me as I refill the glass. ‘Sporty, eh?’
‘Hardly.’ Sport is one great arena in my life that slides by, unexamined. Running for sanity doesn’t count as sport.
We sit at the window table. The wooden venetian blinds are closed against the luminosity of morning, which still manages to sneak in through the gaps, striping the table with thin bars of saffron light. The door is wedged open, and the heat from outside elevates the temperature. Awkwardness seizes my throat, and I rub my palms against my thighs. My running shorts, an old pair I salvaged last night from the attic, are too short, and I’m conscious of how dusty I must look, how hot and grimy I am from my five-mile run through the traffic-crammed streets. I feel old, too old to be sharing a table with this boy. I stir sugar into my espresso, a spoonful too much. It gives my hands something to do besides tap nervously on the table, or sweat invisibly. Music plays in the background, something loud and guitar-driven. Its interruption is welcome and it masks my self-consciousness. I fiddle with the empty sugar packet, folding it several times. The coffee disappears in a few swallows. What I’d really like is a whiskey, but it’s too early to drink in front of others.
Sean talks, and I watch his hands. They’re beautiful. I see Raphael painting his Madonnas and his angels with those hands, the power beneath the tanned skin, all those bones and muscles working overtime. Three leather bracelets loop his right wrist. A chunky silver ring circles his left thumb.
He’s an animator. Of course he is. Somehow, in the wedge of time between my leaving and my return, job descriptions in Ireland morphed into something infinitely more appealing. Gone are the generations of Irish teachers and bank workers, civil servants and insurance company employees, with their pensions, their reliability, their permanent jobs. In their place are the computer crowd, the artists, the young entrepreneurs. Recessions find it hard to penetrate the membrane of confidence and fake tans, the easy money and easier successes. I am exhausted by the gap in our experiences, aged by bridges I’ll never cross. But he’s beautiful, and I’m finding it hard to resist.
‘So, what brings you home?’
Is it? Home, I mean? Dublin hasn’t felt like home in many years. ‘Family things.’ No mention of my mother. I don’t want her here, spoiling the moment. ‘You know.’
‘Such as?’
I wave the question away. ‘Just some legal stuff. Nothing interesting.’
He points to his cup as the waitress clears the table next to ours. ‘Would you like another?’
I push my tiny cup towards the centre of the table. ‘Why not?’
‘So look, are you busy? I’ve a bit of free time on my hands, and I only live around the corner.’ He rubs his shoulder. His ribbed vest moves. A tattoo snakes over his skin. It looks like writing. Curiosity urges me to look closer, but I sit back in my chair. I shrug. ‘Not really.’ A tiny skip of excitement quickens my nerves. ‘I need to find a job of some sort though.’
‘What do you do?’
Explaining academic work is rarely easy, which is why most of us simplify and say we teach. ‘I work in a university. Research, some teaching, that sort of thing.’ I miss it. The new semester started this week. The beginning of the year is my favourite part, the new courses, new books and students, the possibilities. So much to find out, untried lecture material to test out on unsuspecting undergrads. My plans for a book on women in literature, which I must now set aside for a while. Thank God I didn’t mention the idea to Isaac.
‘That’s cool.’ He sounds like one of my undergraduates. He could be one of my undergraduates. My God, what am I thinking, sitting in a shaded corner of a café with this boy?
‘It’s actually really
Sean’s eyes appraise me as I refill the glass. ‘Sporty, eh?’
‘Hardly.’ Sport is one great arena in my life that slides by, unexamined. Running for sanity doesn’t count as sport.
We sit at the window table. The wooden venetian blinds are closed against the luminosity of morning, which still manages to sneak in through the gaps, striping the table with thin bars of saffron light. The door is wedged open, and the heat from outside elevates the temperature. Awkwardness seizes my throat, and I rub my palms against my thighs. My running shorts, an old pair I salvaged last night from the attic, are too short, and I’m conscious of how dusty I must look, how hot and grimy I am from my five-mile run through the traffic-crammed streets. I feel old, too old to be sharing a table with this boy. I stir sugar into my espresso, a spoonful too much. It gives my hands something to do besides tap nervously on the table, or sweat invisibly. Music plays in the background, something loud and guitar-driven. Its interruption is welcome and it masks my self-consciousness. I fiddle with the empty sugar packet, folding it several times. The coffee disappears in a few swallows. What I’d really like is a whiskey, but it’s too early to drink in front of others.
Sean talks, and I watch his hands. They’re beautiful. I see Raphael painting his Madonnas and his angels with those hands, the power beneath the tanned skin, all those bones and muscles working overtime. Three leather bracelets loop his right wrist. A chunky silver ring circles his left thumb.
He’s an animator. Of course he is. Somehow, in the wedge of time between my leaving and my return, job descriptions in Ireland morphed into something infinitely more appealing. Gone are the generations of Irish teachers and bank workers, civil servants and insurance company employees, with their pensions, their reliability, their permanent jobs. In their place are the computer crowd, the artists, the young entrepreneurs. Recessions find it hard to penetrate the membrane of confidence and fake tans, the easy money and easier successes. I am exhausted by the gap in our experiences, aged by bridges I’ll never cross. But he’s beautiful, and I’m finding it hard to resist.
‘So, what brings you home?’
Is it? Home, I mean? Dublin hasn’t felt like home in many years. ‘Family things.’ No mention of my mother. I don’t want her here, spoiling the moment. ‘You know.’
‘Such as?’
I wave the question away. ‘Just some legal stuff. Nothing interesting.’
He points to his cup as the waitress clears the table next to ours. ‘Would you like another?’
I push my tiny cup towards the centre of the table. ‘Why not?’
‘So look, are you busy? I’ve a bit of free time on my hands, and I only live around the corner.’ He rubs his shoulder. His ribbed vest moves. A tattoo snakes over his skin. It looks like writing. Curiosity urges me to look closer, but I sit back in my chair. I shrug. ‘Not really.’ A tiny skip of excitement quickens my nerves. ‘I need to find a job of some sort though.’
‘What do you do?’
Explaining academic work is rarely easy, which is why most of us simplify and say we teach. ‘I work in a university. Research, some teaching, that sort of thing.’ I miss it. The new semester started this week. The beginning of the year is my favourite part, the new courses, new books and students, the possibilities. So much to find out, untried lecture material to test out on unsuspecting undergrads. My plans for a book on women in literature, which I must now set aside for a while. Thank God I didn’t mention the idea to Isaac.
‘That’s cool.’ He sounds like one of my undergraduates. He could be one of my undergraduates. My God, what am I thinking, sitting in a shaded corner of a café with this boy?
‘It’s actually really
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