A restaurant three flights up overlooks the flowing mass of gawking tourists in Temple Bar. A woman waits in a leather-lined booth, tugging at the fabric of her dress bunching up in her armpits. She waves off the waiter with a small, strained smile.
Reads the menu again. Checks her watch.
Seven.
She yawns just as a tall man strides into view, dressed for the venue with the air of someone who never has to change into something fancier.
He opens his arms wide, eyebrow raised. Versed in the rhythm of this moment.
“Marie, right?”
“Yes! How’ya Tom! It’s great to meet ya, I’m Marie,” she smiles, bouncing up to give him a quick hug, a chaste cheek-to-cheek kiss, the surfaces of the faces opposing, frictionless. He’s shaved.
“I mean, yeh know that. Feck’s sake.”
He smirks, sliding soundlessly into the leather seat opposite her. A waiter arrives with a jug of water, two glasses, and a question.
“What shall you be drinking tonight?”
Marie scrambles for the menu. Tom says, Adorato appasionato. Turns to her in askance, lips puckered; bottle, or glass?
“Glass,” she replies, immediately.
“We’ll stick to drinks for now,” he smiles, without teeth, eyes scrunched. Marie flings a thank you after the waiter like a shuriken.
“So, where to begin? Do you work?” asks Marie, accepting a wine glass from the waiter before guiding it to the table, glass chiming against wood.
“Data analyst,” he shrugs. “You know, the usual nine to five, except it’s nine to nine. What about you?”
“A Montessori, the usual eight ’til two,” she laughs, hand clasping her throat. “Do you have kids?”
“None that I know of.”
Tom laughs, not too loudly, not too quickly, the sound escaping easily from his lungs. A Goldilocks-just-right.
“Why? Do I look like I have kids?”
“Oh no, not at all. You just have kind eyes, I suppose. A mother’s kind eyes.”
“Do you want kids?” she asks, looking away, into her wine glass. Tom’s eyes widen and focus, flickering across her face. Speed-reading.
“No,” he admits, finding something. “Global warming and mortgages and all that. I want to travel, you know? And Christ, it’s not like I can make a lot of money paying rent in Smithfield. You?”
“One probably,” Marie nods, not meeting his gaze. “But I’m not really sure yet.”
“Me too,” he mediates.
His glass becomes two, and three, and four, while hers drains away into a half, a quarter, then none. Early morning, she explains, rising to go, coat appearing in her hands by way of expectant waitress. He orders squid tagliatelle before the waiter leaves.
On the bus home, Marie shoots him a copied-and-pasted text from her drafts app.
Warmth greets Marie at the house, and shutting the front door as slowly as she can, she slips her heels off tired feet. Peeks into the living room, where her mother snores, knitting forgotten in her lap. Marie climbs the stairs on tiptoe, eases the talcum-scented baby from the cot, supporting his neck. Bobs him up and down. Weeping gently.
Lips pressed to the soft spot of his head.
Aisling Kearney lives, writes, and works in Dublin. Recently completing her BA in Bioengineering at Trinity College Dublin, she is now beginning to submit her work. She has been or will be published in Sonder, ROPES, New Irish Writing, and Analogies & Allegories. She is currently working on her first novel. Her Twitter handle is @wittynitwit.
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