Padraig

In the light of day, he was sallow and all angles, a chin that was strong and weak at the same time. His blue eyes grew darker and you could see traces of his teenage acne on his cheekbones. I hated seeing him in daylight; I found him so ordinary, borderline unattractive, which would circle back to shame at my own thoughts, a sheen of grease refracting off my skin.

Because of this, I mostly ever saw him at night, usually late night, when I was home from being out in town and empty handed. He lived down the road from me, conveniently, and he would ride his sleek blue road bike the colour of a robin’s egg up to the brownstone I shared with ten other flats. He was so tall the bike came almost to my shoulders, and he would carry it in one hand up the steps and into the carpeted corridor. In the low-edged light that made everyone look good, he would smile, and I would smile, and then I would lead the way one floor up to my loft, where he would undress in the dark and we would make love,and he would think he was the luckiest boy alive.

On nights when the stars were out, my skylight would be open and we would look up, his arm under my shoulders as we lay in bed. We’d smoke even though it was a no smoking flat, and when I would look over at him, his eyes would be purple. In bed his limbs were a forest, and he smelled like the pine of his body spray. He was generous but purposeful; he knew the boundaries of his and my bodies. He was in college, doing an architecture degree, and was from the west of the country, Donegal maybe, or Sligo. He had a brother named Tomas and a sister who, from the sounds of it, didn’t seem too fond of me. I never did ask about that; me, who treats gossip like a Jane Austen thesis. The flat he lived in was filthy, tiny, shared with a Spanish dude who worked as a bike messenger and rarely showered. He hated it but it was the only one he could afford. Years later, they converted the floor of his building into an art gallery. I took a picture of it and sent it to him on Facebook. We had a good laugh over how Rathmines had changed. It was the last time we were ever in touch.

The night I met him was the start of my birthday weekend. I was turning thirty. We met, as one does, in the smoking area of a nightclub famous for its smoking areas and dark corners. I bummed a light, or maybe he did, one or the other. The clock was ticking and the pickings were getting slimmer. But we only exchanged numbers – I was with a whole crew and was still living with an ex boyfriend though we were in the process of breaking up. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that I called him, in the middle of my own house party, to say that I wish I was with him because my party was no longer fun. That wasn’t entirely true, but I wanted to hear a friendly voice, and I was losing my bearings. The ex boyfriend was in a bathroom with a party guest. My friends weren’t drinking enough. I had just spent two hours talking to a disinterested teenager about my fascination with John Updike. I could feel my skin dissolving. His voice was a tonic – funny and warm, a couple of cans of beer in. He said he wished I was with him, too. I grinned at my phone, felt good for the first time in days.

Once I told him that I was worried about my ability to stay in this country. I wasn’t doing too well at work and was worried my boss was going to fire me but I wanted desperately to stay and keep the life I had. We were sitting on the front steps smoking, drinking some wine, looking up at the sky. He scooted right next time me and lay his head on my shoulder. “I’ll marry you”, he said, “So you could stay”. I exhaled a line of smoke and laughed. “Would you now?” I asked. “Of course. If you asked me”, he said.

“I’ll keep that in mind”, I said.

The last time I saw him, I invited him out for a pint. I hadn’t seen him in a few months because I had fallen in love with someone who was impossible to have but also impossible to shake off. I went to pick him up at his flat and nothing about it had changed: still the tiny hallway, still the stinking roommate playing Xbox on an old computer monitor they’d hooked up to the console. He insisted on changing his clothes from what he was wearing at school. It annoyed me but I had no right to be annoyed. He whirled around the flat like a maniac, the stink of hope lingering in the air, or maybe it was just his cheap deodorant. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

At Shaw’s we sat at the bleachers, talking shite and listening to the music. Somewhere in the conversation I told him I was sorry I hadn’t seen him in a while but. But, but, but. I was in love with someone else? I couldn’t see him any more? I’m in a different space right now? We’re not really suited? But, but, but. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

He asked me if I ever heard of the song “For Emma” by Bon Iver. “You know the lyrics”, he asked me. “Look it up”. I think I just nodded and took another gulp of beer. It wasn’t until later, much later, that I realised what lyrics he meant, even though I had the album coincidentally on repeat that summer, and long since. “Go find another lover to bring up, to string along”. 

I don’t remember exactly how we parted ways, but I’d like to think we had a long embrace. He might even have swept me up off the ground for a couple of seconds. Probably held hands, squeezed fingers, then disconnected. We set off in different directions, each of us into the night, him on his bike riding the wind, me stubbornly, impossibly, meeting it head on.