She arrives at the door, her father’s car ticking over on the street. Every Saturday she stood there, outside my mother's house. Wednesdays I’d go to her mother's house, but Saturdays were mine. I was born on a Saturday, Saturday was my day. Wednesday I’d cut through Dublin like a bullet on the moped and brave the elements for the promise of momentary stability. Her mothers was always quiet. Except for the dogs. Two snapping Jack Russells and fuck me did I hate those little bastards. Running all over the place. Never once did they run up to greet me or sit on my lap or let me even pet them. They owned that fucking house. People who treat dogs like people treat people like dogs.
Saturday is my day.
We drive to the Off-Licence to pick up some wine. White wine. Argentinian Pinot Grigio. Unreserved, whatever that means. Every week, the same bottle from the same shelf. The center of the village looks beautiful in the evening. The light is soft and everything looks clean. The trees have stopped but the river kicks in. The banks have been closed since Friday but the butchers and the hair dressers are just winding down. Women walk out with the staff and chat on the street. Professional dissolves to informal. Eyes narrow with smiles and laughter. It’s a postcard.
The Off-Licence is at the front of the local supermarket, Super Valu. I used to work here years ago when I was in school. Packing shelves, fruit and veg mostly. I’d arrive at half six to take the orders in on a Saturday morning. Freezing, just me and Geraldine. Crazy woman, good laugh though. We loved the absolute silence. First to explore the day and all that she says. Her picture hung from the wall near the door. Manager of Fruit & Veg. It was taken years ago, when she was gorgeous. She looked very different when I worked with her. She used to talk about how when she was sick in hospital her nails never looked so good. Most mornings she wished herself back there out loud.
I fancied the girl in the deli. Jackie. Freckles, heavy set with blond hair. She’d laugh at everything I said and I’d laugh at everything she said, most of the time. I was always putting on a show. I really fancied her in her butcher’s fedora and blood stained apron. She looked like an angel. We were good mates. I asked her out on my last day and she said no.
I pretend to not remember the girl on the till, as I do every week. Margret or Meave or something. I pay the money and leave. She’s still there, I’m not. Nothing to talk about, nothing to say. We take my wine and walk through the car park and drive back to my mother’s house. I put my hand on her leg while she drives her father’s car and squeeze it. She hates that but I do it anyway. I am in love.
The car clicks, ticks, shrinks and settles on the street. She opens my wine and we sit side by side on the couch watching the telly. This is when we talk. All she needs is a glass and I have the remaining bottle.
We lay on the floor and have sex with the TV on and the sound off. The blinds are closed. I don't worry about waking my mother upstairs, we’ve been together so long. Afterwards she says.
- I hate the way you just presume we’re gonna have sex when we get together like this.
I ignore her. What can I say? I reach for the bottle of wine and finish the last of it. I close my eyes for a bit and she lays still. I am in love.
She awakes with a jolt, I never left her. We look at each other but there is nothing to say. I watch her put on impossibly small clothes. We drive to an empty car park that looks out over Dublin bay. We sit in silence in her father’s car. I grab her leg. I am in love. The city is spread out like a necklace. It’s a postcard. Still and unmoving, and so are we.
