“That was the problem with women falling out of love; the veil of romance fell away from their eyes, and they looked in and could read you.” Read a short story by CKeeganFiction.
On Friday, July 29th, Dublin got the weather that had been forecast. All morning, a brazen sun shone down on Merrion Square, reaching onto Cathal’s desk, where he was stationed, by the open window. A taste of cut grass blew in, and every now and then a warm breeze played with the ivy on the ledge. When a shadow crossed, he looked out: a gulp of swallows skirmishing, high up, in camaraderie.
The boss was a Northern man, almost ten years younger than him, who wore designer suits and played squash at the weekends.“Did you get a bite of lunch, something to eat?”The boss was looking him over, taking in his usual jacket, tie, and trousers, the unpolished shoes. “We’re taking the kids to Brittas Bay for a dip on Sunday,” she went on. “If we don’t soon go, the summer could get away from us.”“How about you?” she said. “Any plans for the long weekend?”
He thought she would go on, but she reached into her bag and took out a book, “The Woman Who Walked Into Doors,” and was soon engrossed and turning the pages. They took the bus down to his place in Arklow afterward and lay in bed with the window wide open: warm air and the steely sounds of his neighbor’s wind chimes coming in. She slept for an hour or more before walking to Tesco for groceries and making dinner: chicken roasted with branches of thyme, and shallots, fennel. The woman could cook; even now, he had to say that much for her.
Finally, when the tart was in the oven, he looked at their empty glasses and replenished them, and asked if they should marry.“Why don’t we?” She let out a sound, a type of choked laughter. “What sort of way is this of asking? It seems like you are almost making some type of argument against it.”Her command of the English language sometimes grated.“About making a life, a home here with me. There’s no reason you shouldn’t live here instead of paying rent.
She stared at him and was about to turn and walk, but Cathal backed down, and clutched her arm, and apologized. The jeweller pressed his lips together as though resisting the urge to say something more, but when the transaction was approved he simply handed Cathal the receipt and the little box, which weighed no more than a box of matches.