by Hazel Hayes
‘I’m serious!’ I say, throwing a cushion at him. ‘Tom is so blinded by who he wants Summer to be that he can’t see who she really is. Watch it again in a few years and I guarantee your perspective will change.’
‘But the story won’t change.’
‘It doesn’t have to,’ I say, ‘because you will.’
‘Deep,’ says Theo, throwing the cushion back at me and accidentally knocking the glass of red wine in my hand. It spills all over me but thankfully misses the sofa.
‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ says Theo, running to the kitchen.
‘They’re your clothes,’ I shout after him.
He returns with a wet cloth and stands in front of me, unsure what to do. I’m completely soaked.
‘Maybe I’ll just jump in the shower.’
Theo takes a step back.
‘Yes. Good idea,’ he says.
‘That way we can avoid doing that thing where you help me get undressed and we accidentally end up having sex.’
‘We would never do that,’ says Theo, with faux sincerity, ‘because we’re mates.’
‘Ah yes,’ I say with a smile, then I head towards the bathroom, where Theo hands me a fresh towel and leaves me to it.
In the shower, I feel weirdly agitated, like my body is full of energy I need to expend. The sensation is odd and a little frustrating, and running my hands over my own skin as I wash only causes the energy to build further. Even the hot water trickling down my body is pleasurable to the point of being bothersome. So I turn the temperature down and try to literally cool myself off.
Afterwards, I wipe steam off the mirror and stand staring at my naked body. I’ve started to regain all the weight I lost during my last relationship, and my body looks healthy for the first time since I was a teenager. I’ve been eating properly again – my mother’s made sure of that – and my boss, Ciara, has even convinced me to take up yoga.
‘It’s not for your body, it’s for your mind,’ she told me, as she perched on the edge of my desk one morning. ‘It’ll help with your anxiety.’
‘What anxiety?’ I asked.
‘Oh, sweetie,’ said Ciara, tilting her head to one side and touching my shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of compassion.
Looking at my reflection now, I imagine Theo standing behind me, wrapping his arms around me, and I feel frustration creep back in. I take my right foot, place it on my left thigh and press my palms together in front of my chest. Then, rooting down through my standing foot, just like the instructor taught me, I raise my arms above my head and close my eyes. Tree pose is my favourite pose because you can’t think about anything else when you’re on one foot. My breath slows, my mind clears and my body steadies.
When I’m done, I wrap myself in the towel Theo gave me and go back to his room, where I find him sitting by the record player again, deciding which album to put on.
‘Laura Marling or Johnny Flynn?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know either of them.’
‘Right, we need to sort that out,’ says Theo, before putting on what I can only assume is Johnny Flynn, since a very solemn, soulful male voice comes booming from the speakers. The voice contrasts beautifully with the music, which is whimsical and light, like traditional folk with modern arrangements. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to a song I later find out is called ‘The Wrote and the Writ’ and I’m almost moved to tears by the words, which are more like poetry than lyrics.
‘Wow,’ I say, when the song is over.
‘I know,’ says Theo, beaming from ear to ear. ‘I thought you’d like this, being a writer and all. Wait till you hear Laura. You’ll love her.’
I find it incredibly endearing how much pleasure he takes in sharing these songs, which clearly mean so much to him. Suddenly I feel an overwhelming urge to be let further into his world. I want to crack him open and look inside. I want to understand how he works. I want to know him like nobody else knows him.
He’s left some fresh clothes folded on the bed for me, but I stay in my towel for now, lying back down on the bed to listen to the music. After a few minutes, Theo changes the record again. I recognise The Smiths straight away and I let out a little giggle.
‘Now we’re officially a cliché,’ says Theo as he lies down next to me.
‘Is this okay?’ he asks. ‘Me lying here?’
I nod.
‘How did he die?’ I ask, gesturing to the Jeff Buckley poster.
‘He drowned in the Mississippi. Decided to go for swim one night. They found him the next day, fully clothed.’
‘That’s so tragic,’ I say.
‘All the best musicians have tragic backstories,’ says Theo.
‘Oh yeah?’ I ask. ‘What’s Morrissey’s then?’
‘Well, people say he was madly in love with Johnny Marr, The Smiths’ guitarist. But it was unrequited. Largely because Johnny’s not gay …’
‘Yeah, that’s pretty tragic all right.’
Theo nods and places a hand on my stomach, absent-mindedly tapping out the rhythm with his fingertips. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sweeps through me and I don’t want him to stop.
‘Have you ever liked guys?’ I ask. I’m just making conversation but Theo seems a bit thrown by the question. I wonder if he and his friends ever talk about this stuff.
‘I kissed a bloke once at a party, but it didn’t really do anything for me. What about you?’
‘Yeah, I’m attracted to girls …’
‘That’s hot,’ interjects Theo and I shove him playfully in the shoulder.
‘But I never really got a chance to explore it, because I got into a relationship so young.’
‘Wait, how long were you with your ex?’ asks Theo, and I’m almost embarrassed to admit it.
‘Eight years.’
‘Eight years!’ he repeats. ‘Holy shit.’
‘Yeah, I was only seventeen,’ and I already know what Theo is going to ask next.
‘So, was he your only …?’
‘The only person I’ve slept with, yes.’
‘Whoa,’ says Theo, like I’ve just landed a massive bombshell on him. I wonder how many women he’s slept with, and suddenly I’m hit by a flash of jealousy, not that they got to be with him, but that he got to have those experiences and I didn’t. While everyone else was at college, exploring their sexuality the way you’re supposed to, I spent every night sleeping next to a man who often wouldn’t touch me for months, and when we did have sex it was rough and unromantic and rarely about pleasing me. In fact, I think the only reason he ever tried to make me come was so that he could feel good about himself.
‘I can’t count the amount of times I faked it just so it would be over.’
I didn’t really mean to say that out loud but there it is.
‘He’d bark orders at me. And tell me I was doing everything wrong. And he’d never hold me after, he’d go and wash his hands straight away, every time, like I was … dirty … or something.’
‘Fucking hell. I’m sorry,’ says Theo, with sadness in his eyes. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Theo touches my cheek softly and looks into my eyes.
‘What a complete arsebadger,’ he says, and this catches me so off guard that it sends me into a fit of laughter. When the laughter fades, another thought occurs to me.
‘What if I’m shit at it?’
‘At what? Sex?’
I nod.
‘I doubt that,’ is all he says, just as the music stops. Theo goes and turns the record over then comes back to lie beside me again.
‘Any awful life events you’d like to share with me?’ I ask.
Something clearly comes to mind straight away, but Theo thinks on it a while, as though deciding whether or not he should tell me.
‘My dad was a junkie,’ he says, finally. ‘There were always needles lying around the house. And I’m pretty sure he beat up my mum. We don’t talk about it though.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, reaching o
ut to touch his arm, ‘and for what it’s worth, my dad was the same. But with drink, not drugs.’
Theo nods solemnly.
‘I’ve never told anyone that,’ he says.
I pull him into me and hold him there, stroking his hair, until the music stops again and we both drift off to sleep.
When I wake up it’s dark and Theo’s gone. There’s a damp patch on the pillow from my hair. I feel dizzy from all the wine, so I decide to go and get myself some water. I creep quietly down the dark hallway so as not to wake Theo, who I presume is sleeping on the sofa, and I’m almost at the kitchen when I bump into him and scream with fright.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I was just coming to get another blanket. It’s fucking freezing in there.’
I just stare back at him.
‘Are you all right, angel?’ he asks.
I nod, but say nothing.
Theo reaches out and touches my face, his fingertips brushing the back of my ear. I lean forward and so does he. Our lips meet. I feel his tongue flick softly against mine and in that moment, my body makes the decision for me; my hands grab at his neck and I start slowly walking backwards as we kiss, leading him towards his bedroom and undressing him as we go. My towel comes undone and falls to the floor but I barely notice. When we reach the bed, I fall back onto it with him on top of me, still kissing me and pressing his body close to mine so that I can feel how hard he is against me.
Suddenly Theo stops kissing me. He pulls his face back a few inches and gazes down into my eyes with a look of such intense lust and longing that I feel like a magnificent white light is radiating from me, so bright and beautiful that he can’t bring himself to look away. He lifts my arms above my head and slides his hands down them, tracing the outer edges of my breasts, then running his fingertips across my waist and hips. His mouth works its way down my chest to my stomach, and then on, further, till he’s kissing my hipbones. Then the inside of my thighs. My body buzzes with anticipation, as though every single cell is humming softly.
Theo takes his time with me, savouring me, bringing me to the edge over and over before finally letting me slip into rapturous release. And then, he does it again. The second time, the feeling is so overwhelming that I actually notice a tear run down the side of my face. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, I think, and the thought brings with it equal parts sadness and joy.
When we make love, Theo takes his time with that too, slowly sinking into me, and allowing me to thoroughly experience every single sensation; every brush of his lips against my ear, every stroke of his fingertips on my skin. My legs wrap around him and my hands grasp at his back, pulling him further into me, and the whole time, I feel like my body is an undiscovered land being explored for the first time. It’s like he’s committing every inch of me to memory, in case he never gets to see this place again.
Afterwards, Theo holds me in his arms and we lie in silence, both breathing heavily.
‘Shit,’ he says, finally.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do mates do that?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘they do not.’
We doze for a while, and I’m woken by a sudden flash of light. I had been lying on my stomach with the sheets wrapped around me, and I look behind me now to see Theo shaking off a Polaroid picture.
‘Bit creepy,’ I mumble, as he adds it to the wall of photos.
‘Just something to remember you by.’
Theo sits on the edge of the bed next to me.
‘Remember me?’ I laugh. ‘Why? Am I going somewhere?’
‘I hope not,’ he says, and I feel a flutter in my chest, like a flock of birds taking flight.
By now a full moon has risen in the sky, bathing the room in ghostly blue light. A flurry of snowflakes swirls outside the window and the branches of some unseen tree beat gently against the side of the building.
In the half light, Theo is exquisite, almost luminous. His strong, sinewy shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, pulling his pale skin taut across them like a drum. His face is like a charcoal drawing, all strong lines and shades of grey. I want to reach out with one fingertip and gently smudge the shadow that pools the small dent above his top lip. When he looks at me, his dark eyes appear endless, and I worry that I might fall into them and never find my way back out. He touches my cheek and my whole body hums again.
‘I won’t ever hurt you,’ says Theo.
I stare silently up at him, unsure what to say. Then I sit up quickly, take his face in my hands and kiss him. Moments later, we’re making love again, wordlessly, almost soundlessly, while a storm rages outside.
And so the winter passes with little regard for us. It lashes at our windows and freezes our fingers and toes each time they venture outside the covers where we remain, nestled in one another, making love and promises in the dark.
Twelve Pubs and Coppers
There is nothing nice about an Irish winter. It remains the only part of our culture – including famine, foul language and a collective drinking problem – that is entirely immune to romanticisation. Not even the magic of Christmas can salvage this sorry excuse for a season, which arrives too early and lasts long after the lights have come down and the gifts have been re-gifted. Cold wet days give way to colder, wetter nights, and endless months of dark, drawn-out mornings linger long into the afternoon, where a low-hanging sun makes empty threats of heat. Irish winter is a nuisance of a guest, forever outstaying its welcome as spring sputters to a sleepy start, too polite to tell it to fuck off.
And as for snow, you may forget it; we go years without the merest whiff of snow. When it does finally fall, the entire population develops a sort of meteorological precognitive ability, insisting on asserting – out loud and to anyone who’ll listen – whether or not ‘it’ll stick’.
If it does stick, if even a few centimetres of snow somehow do manage to stay on the ground, we rejoice! Curtains are thrown open and siblings are dragged unceremoniously from their beds and out into a rare wonderland which was, only hours before, a muddy back garden. Entire families – dressed in all manner of strange but cosy garb – laugh as they scoop up snow to throw at one another, or slide down hills in make-shift, bin-lid toboggans. The next day, unable to cope with the ‘extreme weather conditions’, a national state of emergency is called and the whole country shuts down – save for the pubs, of course, which will remain open until the Four Horsemen themselves call closing time. Inevitably the snow melts, and with our streets and farms and gardens submerged under a thick, grey soup, we instantly forget our fleeting fairy tale, and curse the snow for ever having fallen in the first place.
I am woken by the sound of the central heating chugging to life. The room is freezing; I can just about see my own breath. I’m face down on my bed in a coat that doesn’t belong to me, and under that I’m wearing a long white gown, the hem of which is filthy and damp against my bare ankles. A sparkly object next to my head slides slowly into focus; a homemade, coat-hanger halo, crudely covered in tinsel and sellotape. I vaguely recall cobbling it together in the office yesterday. Beside that there’s a packet of unopened face wipes. I touch my eyelashes – still caked in mascara – and congratulate my past self on her good intentions.
Rising gingerly, I am instantly hit by the severity of my hangover; every muscle in my body aches – even my bones are tender – and it feels as though my scalp has shrunk around my skull. I guzzle down the pint of water by my bed, another of my past self’s best-laid plans, then reach for my phone, which I left charging on the nightstand. At least you managed that, I think, picking it up to check the time; almost 4 p.m. There’s a text message from an unknown number. I hope it’s him.
‘I had the strangest dream last night,’ it reads. ‘There was an angel in my bed.’
I smile as I type my reply, ‘How odd … There’s an angel in my bed too!’
Within seconds, three little dots appear at the bottom of my screen, before materialising into words.
‘Ask her if
she’s seen my coat.’
I giggle at this, nuzzling my face into the collar of the coat, which still smells like him.
‘You can have it back in return for some potatoes.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ he replies, ‘I was just about to make some mash.’
‘Be there soon!’ I say, before saving his number to my contacts as ‘Theo From Accounting’ and hurrying straight to the bathroom.
It’s even colder in here. I place a hand on the radiator – still lukewarm – and undress quickly, keeping the time between stripping down and stepping into the shower to an absolute minimum. The water is tepid – apparently my past self also failed to turn on the immersion last night – but still, I brave the Baltic conditions for a few extra minutes in order to shave my legs. Just in case, I think, as I slide a razor over goose-pimpled shins. My thoughts instantly turn to Theo and, just like the makeshift halo on my bed, the past twenty-four hours float slowly into focus.
I was looking out my office window at the sea of black umbrellas undulating along O’Connell Street – one bright red brolly bobbing among them like a lifebuoy – and waiting for an archaic printer to cough out my last article of the year. December in Dublin is a sad, sludgy affair; people trudging through puddles on their way to work, or on desperate expeditions for some last-minute Christmas gifts. I stood there in a pristine white dress, watching busy shoppers bustle about, laden with bags and clutching their coats against the cold, and I smiled smugly at the thought of my gifts – in a neat pile at the end of my bed, all wrapped and ready to go.
The printer stopped abruptly, choking on my fourth and final page. I kicked it hard and it practically spat the last page at me, the ink slightly smudged but legible. As I turned to grab the stapler from the window ledge, I saw them from the corner of my eye: the first few flakes of snow. Within seconds they went from floating to falling to hurtling downwards with great purpose, where they landed on the smiling, upturned faces of people below.
