‘Tell me.’ She cupped her chin, thumb and index finger resting in her deep dimples. Such a beautiful smile rendered with such ease.
I, by contrast, fumbled with consummate uncool. ‘You think you … you like someone … you do … don’t … you’re … I don’t know …’ I finally blurted the explanation my mother had given like a sword-thrust. ‘In love with being in love.’
‘She broke your heart, didn’t she?’
‘Truth is, I broke hers.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, you know how these things go.’
As we crossed the Ha’penny bridge into North Dublin, I turned toward the last gasp of sunset. The river Liffey was resplendent with reflections of yellow lights from windows, and purple and pink ribbons through the otherwise dark horizon.
‘Feeling inspired?’
‘Yeah, a little. I’ve always liked the way buildings look reflected in living water, the way the lights streak and mingle, kind of a natural abstraction.’
‘I love abstraction.’
‘I paint abstracts sometimes.’
She grabbed my elbow. ‘Do ya? I’d love to see!’
‘I’ve only done one since I came here. It isn’t much.’ I turned north, away from my uncomely, reasonably cheap room above a tea shop in South Dublin.
‘Can I see?’ She tugged south.
I tugged north, but she didn’t budge. ‘Oh, all right.’
‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’
Paintings were strewn about, dishes and small pots piled in the small sink. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s an artist’s place. I like it.’ She stepped around a makeshift easel and studied a painting of a shop just down the road from the apartment. She moved gracefully around the clutter and continued to study.
‘You said I look at you like an artist studies a model. Voice of experience?’
‘I sat once or twice at university. You know, I’m not a big fan of architecture, but this is good.’ She paused on a painting of the huge vaulted glass ceiling inside the St Steven’s Green shopping centre and turned back. ‘You and your shopping malls.’
‘The ceiling there is fascinating. It just looms above, like a massive greenhouse, even a bit like … the sky itself.’ I quickly retrieved the one abstract wedged between paintings of a small local church and an old mansion. I made it a point that she saw I didn’t just do malls and shops, then put the abstract on an easel.
She lit up. ‘Makes me think of the sun.’ She reached toward it then waited for my approval. I nodded and she traced the red aura, then its rim to the pale centre.
‘Well, it is about warmth, comfort.’
‘The shape is … interesting. What are those?’ She touched two green spots low in the painting.
‘Trees … I guess.’
‘You guess?’
‘Sometimes I just paint things … you know, for feel. Grab a colour, put it down. I mean, it is abstract.’
‘Oh, I meant no offence.’ I’d never expected to hear those words.
‘I’m not offended. Sometimes it’s just hard to explain an abstract.’
‘There’s something kind of eerie, but comforting in it.’
I stopped and studied it to try to find out what she found eerie. She turned her eyes, but not her face, toward me. Caireann was flippant but deep. Intelligent but crude. She didn’t wear make-up or perfume. There was something forbidden, but consumptive, about her. She pressed her freckled shoulder to my upper arm and my cock perked up.
‘You really get it … I mean, my painting.’
She turned her face toward me. I had to taste that freckle in her lower lip. She opened slowly, and I dived in like the first plunge from a high-dive. She lifted her arms and I broke the kiss just long enough to peel down her tank top. I fumbled with the snaps of her plain white bra. She reached around her back and flicked it open with her left hand.
From there, Caireann cooperated just enough. She folded her shoulders so I could peel her bra then shifted her hips so I could take down her jeans.
The ornate cross that dangled between her lean, shapely breasts amplified the sense of the forbidden. Perhaps it explained the pensive distance in her eyes which contrasted with her insistent kisses. Just like her lip, one of her pale nipples had a dark freckle amidst her Braille buds. I focused on that freckle. I guided her down to the bed and nearly ripped her panties off.
I delved into her with my fingers. She was sopping wet, silent with a hyper-aware gaze.
I needed her so badly, I stripped my clothes quickly, and entered her. She swivelled her hips in such a way as it bent my rod in her. It felt so good, and my orgasm instantaneously surged. I pulled out just in time to splatter up her stomach and chest.
She smiled as I swiped my load from her upper body. I finally cleaned the cross, which was like an iced Easter cake. ‘I, uh –’
She tilted her head back toward the abstract. ‘It’s a face.’
‘What?’
‘Upside down, it’s a face.’
I looked at the painting. ‘No.’
‘She’s a redhead.’
‘She? No, it’s just a coincidence.’ I threw my clothes on as quickly as I’d removed them.
Caireann went to the painting and turned it over. ‘That’s a chin. See that hint of a crease? Her mouth. The trees are her eyes. Her hair sweeps around her chin.’
‘Maybe it’s inspired by … by the stewardess on the flight over.’
‘Stewardess?’
‘Yeah, I was … well … I hate to fly, you know? Maybe her face … maybe she comforted … I mean … red hair … she did … you know … comfort me … made me feel more comfortable.’
‘She had the green eyes?’
‘Well … no … but who heard of a blue tree?’ I half laughed, half cleared my throat.
‘That girlfriend of yours had green eyes, didn’t she?’
‘No …’
‘Did too.’
‘Did not. Well … she’s got nothing … anyway … it’s just an abstract.’
‘And you broke her heart?’
‘I did!’ I hated the way Caireann looked at me. Pity, disdain, whatever. ‘Um, I gotta get up early …’ I grabbed the front door handle.
She began to dress. ‘You know –’
‘Really early. Got a … a lot to do.’
Her shoes in her hand, she left. She didn’t look back.
Five minutes after the door had closed, I felt horrible. She had been right, in her way. The break-up had been hard on me, and I took it out on Caireann for fathoming this. I had adored Lisa, from her long feet to her large, shapely nose, to her lively green eyes with the warm spray of freckles on her cheeks.
I didn’t know Caireann’s last name or phone number.
I once read about a guy who dreamt the lottery numbers, awakened, played them and won. I knew there would be no lottery numbers now, but it was equally important that I focus. I knew this was indeed a dream, and it needed to be remembered.
The room was large or I was small. Probably both. I was seated, secured, could move, but couldn’t, I was up high, but still so much above me. The setting was familiar, but I couldn’t identify one thing in this place.
My mother’s silver blonde hair hung straight down, slim lips, bright blue eyes, sandy skin. She grabbed things and put them behind me. I looked behind me, where she placed a colourful rectangle then turned back.
A red, dishevelled aura had replaced my mother’s immaculate appearance. At the middle of the mass, speckles of warm rusty brown on ivory, bright pink lips, breath like candy canes. She looked cool to the touch but her soft palm rubbing my cheek was like a mitt fresh from pulling chocolate chip cookies from the oven.
The dishevelled woman said a few things, green eyes focused on me. My ears were muffled like I had marshmallows in them. She spoke to me like I was a person. I wasn’t sure why that surprised me, maybe in my dream I was a dog. Then I realized my small fingers were wrapped around her thumb.
&n
bsp; A sudden sting on my cheek, perhaps like being made to breathe after birth. The face before me was my mother again. She had a strange smile that wasn’t really a smile. The red aura had disappeared.
When I awoke, I shuddered. I remembered that I’d had variations of this dream in my youth, but they had long since faded to black. This revival came with sparkling clarity, and I scribbled down every detail on a hunk of watercolour paper.
‘Didn’t get enough of this place before?’
I felt a warm chill up my spine. I rarely painted the same place twice, much less four times running, but it was the only thing I could think to do. I painted the entrance to The Royal Hibernian Way shopping centre day after day and stopped at the Stag’s Head to choke down a pint on my way back to the flat each evening. ‘I was hoping you’d happen by.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I was rude. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re a sweet lad. I figured … well, I’d overstepped.’
‘You did. But it was a good thing. I mean, you’re right. You may not be an artist, but you got a hell of an artist’s eye.’
She winked. ‘I’ll give it back when I’m done.’
We walked along the south bank of the river until we reached the Ha’penny Bridge again. I was both relieved and disappointed when we reached the other side and turned to walk back along the other bank.
After one of our now customary long silences, she blurted, ‘Did you know that the Royal Hibernian Way used to be a hotel? They tore it down back in the eighties.’
‘OK?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m just blathering. Still fascinated by your thing with shopping.’
Her comment sparked spontaneous expounding. ‘I’ve painted abstracts similar to the one you saw for years. Maybe inspired by a dream I used to have.’
‘About your girlfriend?’
‘No, the dreams were before that. After you pointed it out, what you saw in the painting …’ I looked up in the bright blue sky. ‘I had the old dream again.’ I’d never told a soul about it.
As soon as I handed her the scrap of paper, I wanted to grab it away. I felt the same as I had in the plane before taking off from Philly. Caireann’s right hand folded in to my elbow so I could guide her as she read, or maybe to anchor me from running. When she looked up from it, I spoke quickly, the way she usually did. ‘Not long after my mother met Lisa, she told me it would never work between me and her. I asked why. She just said “she’s not right for you”, I said “but I like her, she’s funny and warm”. My mother, who was anything but passionate …’ It took me a few moments to finish. ‘She slapped my face so hard. I can still feel the sting. “Don’t you defy me”, she said. I was stunned.’
Caireann rubbed my razor stubble cheek as if to soothe the slap. ‘What else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was more, wasn’t there?’
‘No … yes … It’s not important … I don’t want to offend.’
Caireann lifted her red eyebrows.
I spoke in a compressed whisper. ‘She said “You’re worse than your father. I won’t have you with that” …’, I swallowed hard, ‘“Irish whore”.’
‘Aw.’ Caireann bumped her shoulder to my arm.
‘Lisa was so sweet. I was just … well … shit, I’ve never told anyone that.’
* * *
I sipped my Guinness the same way I had that first night. I wasn’t getting any fonder of it but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The place was removed from the Pub Crawl. The Victorian setting was relaxing, more locals than tourists.
I managed to nurse a pint to conclusion while Caireann polished off several. I thought she was going to say something, then she abruptly stood up. ‘I’ve got an early day tomorrow. You know how to get back to your place from here?’
‘Tomorrow is Saturday.’ I took her hand. ‘Maybe you could … walk with me?’
‘No.’
‘I understand. I’ve got a bead on things. I’ll find my way.’
I walked out slowly and waited for her to stop me. She didn’t. I was a block west of the pub when I felt a warm hand on my elbow. ‘Maybe … I can’t have you getting lost.’ She turned me west, then north. We were absorbed into a series of streets, some straight, some curved. We turned with alarming frequency through rows of terraced houses. I looked around for landmarks, and knew full well we’d drifted far from the river. ‘Are we going the wrong way?’
‘No.’ She stopped. ‘Matter of fact, here we are.’
‘Where?’
‘My house.’ She nodded at a brightly painted door. ‘I’ve something I’d like to show you, if you have a moment.’
The living room had a couch facing a small fireplace with an iron insert and an ornate wooden mantle. The abstract above looked out of place with the simple, traditional furniture and architecture. Set back from the entryway door was a small alcove where a window opened on to the street. In this alcove, a wing chair with reading lamp partially obscured a colourful painting. I peered around the lampshade. The painting had elements of abstraction, blended with realism. It was clearly a woman’s face. The freckle on the lip left no doubt. ‘From your modelling days?’
‘Modelling? Oh Lord, I was never a model.’
‘But you said you posed –’
‘Not for money. What artist would pay a ganky lass like me?’
‘Ganky?’
‘You know, ugly.’
‘Christ, you’re anything but ganky, Caireann.’
‘Thanks, but I can be a bit … unpleasant.’
‘Not at all. So who did the painting?’
‘A friend.’
‘Really?’ There was a needful passion in the artist’s hand.
‘He used to call me Carrie-Ann. Goofy bastard.’ She walked through the living room to the kitchen. ‘Care for a drink?’
I stepped closer to the painting, touched the impasto strokes. The guy was good. ‘Just a friend?’
‘You paint buildings without people. He painted people without buildings. What are you drinking?’
‘How long did you know him?’’
Her voice got impatient. ‘Long enough. Now what do you want?’
‘Just water. He broke your heart, didn’t he.’
‘Water, just water?’
‘He broke … your fucking … heart … Carrie-Ann.’
‘Fooker.’ She set a glass of water at one end of her couch and drank a bottle of Guinness deliberately and acted like she was ignoring me. She stared at the inert fireplace as if it were glowing. I remained where I was.
‘Will you come away from that ganky thing?’
‘I told you, you’re not ganky. You’re an absolute ride.’ I even added Irish inflections and a Caireann-approved wink.
She grabbed her mouth and her cheeks flushed red. But within a moment her face was so sombre, even sad. I wanted her to light up with flippant comments. I goaded her with talk of shopping malls and fear of flying.
She responded politely, pensively. She became increasingly distant.
‘Do you want me to go, Caireann?’
‘No, please.’ She patted my hand. ‘Been thinking about your dream.’
‘Oh?’
‘Do you really not get what it means?’
‘No, I don’t.’
She lifted one brow.
‘I don’t.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you worry, if you know what makes you tick it might change … you know … how you view things? Art, whatever?’
‘Whatever?’
‘You know.’
‘I don’t worry. If my outlook on art changes, it’ll be for the better.’ I couldn’t have been surer of myself.
‘OK. Your father left when you were young. Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m not gonna tell you the bloody answer, you gotta meet it halfway. What does your ma not like about you?’
I began to fidget
. ‘Well, she says I’m like my dad.’
‘And what don’t you like about her.’
‘I don’t … do … don’t … I mean, do like her fine.’ I looked around the room quickly.
She lifted an eyebrow.
‘OK … she is kind of cold.’
‘What happened with the woman in your dream? What did you do?’
‘I grabbed her thumb.’
‘And what happened next’
I looked at the floor.
‘Now, why do you think your father left your mother?’
I had the same urge to run as I’d had when she read about my dream, when she saw the face in the painting. I cleared my throat. ‘She … she’s cold.’
‘What do think he left her for?’
‘Someone warm … like … the woman in the dream. Maybe … mom met her … and was mad because I touched her … or smiled at her … or liked her.’
‘Or all of the above.’
I felt an electric charge up my spine. My heart raced as it all came together. ‘Oh fuck.’ I wanted anything to take away the focus I felt on me. ‘I … you do understand a lot about people.’
‘I have a degree in psychiatry.’
‘You’re a psychiatrist?’
‘No, I have a degree. I’m an office manager.’
‘After all those studies?’
‘My bedside manner is lacking just a wee bit.’ We had been so serious that the convulsive laugh we shared was almost absurd. ‘Anyway, after your ma –’
I practically jumped across the cushion and kissed her. I tugged at the base of her T-shirt as my tongue deepened like a hard, needful cock. She raised her arms. I realized, just like the first time we’d been together, this seemed like surrender. It didn’t feel right, so I squeezed her waist until she let her arms fall to my neck. After the kiss, she studied me awkwardly.
‘Maybe I better go now.’
‘It’s late. You should stay. I won’t say any more about the dream.’
‘No … it’s not … I mean …’
There was that grin.
‘Thanks, lass.’
‘You’re welcome, lad.’ She kissed me.
We peeled off our clothes a piece at a time. I hooked my thumbs in my underwear, she held her hand at the clasp on the back of her bra.
After a tense pause, I pulled my underwear down then covered my semi-erect cock.
Sex in the City--Dublin Page 10
