What it felt like to say, on a street corner, See you later, and to know that those were not only throwaway words.
That those were not just words you said to someone to send them on their way.
Late afternoon, thinking of them thinking of each other. Thinking what their thoughts would look like; thinking what the shape of them would be.
And then the evenings.
The empty evenings.
* * *
Times when it was so hard not to pick up the phone.
Saying, Liam? Is this Liam?
And telling him — telling him—
* * *
Telling him what?!
She had nothing. She did not even have that.
* * *
She would do such things—
* * *
You will meet a very important person this week.
You will have a very meaningful dream this week.
This week will be very lucky for you. This week will be like no other.
* * *
Ellen was coming up to Dublin for the day. Looking for a flat for college.
“Can you meet me? Say six o’clock outside Trinity? Can I stay with you?”
But that was one of the James evenings. Ellen would have to take the last train home.
* * *
“James and Liam are coming round for dinner on Friday,” Lorraine said to her the next evening. “Is that OK with you?”
“What?” Catherine said, staring at her. “Here?”
“Yeah,” Lorraine said slowly. “I told you they were coming some Friday evening. They’ll probably stay. It’ll be nice to have them around for the weekend. You don’t have any plans, do you?”
* * *
Dear Callous Cit,
Why no love from you? Have you been so swept up into a transatlantic cyber affair that you have forgotten your sunburned, Italo-groped friend entirely? I am very sad not to have heard from you. You have caused me to look at the postman with such pathetic hope that he, along with every other man in this kip of a village, thinks he is in with a flying chance of a shag. Thanks v. much.
James, however, has been a little more forthcoming. Is this not v.v. exciting, this rapidly developing non-cyber, real-life-actual-boy love affair? James seems to be properly smitten. I am SO smug. Isn’t the story about the photo and the line from the poem the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard? Very cute of James. Very—
* * *
She knew nothing of a photo. She knew nothing of a line from a poem.
* * *
She put this information with the other scraps of information. The things she knew it was better that she had never heard at all. The things she knew it was better for her to ignore.
* * *
But it refused, like all the rest of them, to leave her mind alone.
Thinking, What poem?
James did not read poems.
James did not harvest lines and gather them.
So what line had James taken from a poem?
* * *
It ran through her mind in the nighttime and in the daytime, and it would not leave her be.
12
But she knew.
13
A voice calling out to her as she cut through campus.
PhotoSoc Lisa. Smiling, waving, happy-looking; why did everyone look so bloody happy?
Wanting to talk to Catherine about the photo she had been keeping for her; the photo of James that Catherine had taken with the Rolleiflex. Apologizing; walking towards Catherine, Lisa was already apologizing, already explaining; she had kept it, she was saying, for weeks, had been carrying it around in her bag, even, in the hope of bumping into Catherine just like this. Imagine! And now she had, and she didn’t have it with her—
And it was all right, Catherine said, shrugging, wanting to be free of her; she could give it to her another time.
But Lisa, shaking her head, holding up her hands as though surrendering, and saying no, saying Catherine didn’t understand: the photo was already gone. She had the negatives, of course — she could do another copy — but the photo was gone. It was just that she had bumped into Liam, one day — right here, in fact, just a week or so ago — and she and Liam had been chatting, and naturally, James had come up in conversation — wasn’t it just so lovely about Liam and James? — and she had taken out Catherine’s photo of James, which she had still had on her, to show to Liam, and, well, it was just that Liam had loved it so much, had been so very taken with it—
And she had the negatives, she said again, and she could make another copy.
And as for that amazing portrait that James had made this month of Liam—
Had Catherine seen it?
It was beautiful, really beautiful; he was going to give it to Lisa for the John Street show, of course — it would be the centerpiece of the whole show, even, possibly—
Catherine was coming to the opening, wasn’t she? James had passed on her invitation?
* * *
The name of the photo? Oh, yes, it had some name — some name from a poem — wait, now, until she thought of it; wait until she got it—
The heart is a thing that happens, would that be it?
The heart is where it happens?
The heart, anyway. She knew that much. She was certain of that much. It was the heart something, the heart—something to do with the heart.
The heart—
The heart—
* * *
Fuck the heart, Catherine said, and Lisa stared.
14
And of course she would not always do this, Catherine assured herself.
Of course, in the future, there would be others, and by then, Catherine assured herself, it would be fine. There would, by then, be no need. No problem. Everyone would get along swimmingly, and nicknames would be bestowed, and fondness would only grow with each golden, gorgeous evening—
A perfect future summer.
I really like him, Catherine. I mean, really. He’s—
And James would say what he was. Whoever he was. James would say the sentence about him. James would finish the sentence.
And Catherine would listen, and smile.
* * *
Liam’s voice as he answered the phone so confident, so bright. Expecting someone else, by the sound of it. Expecting someone who would bring something else to him.
Not this story that it was Catherine’s only choice, now, to bring.
Her only option.
And yes, yes, said Liam, sounding bewildered, he could meet her that evening in O’Brien’s. But would James—?
* * *
No, James would not be.
This would be just them.
* * *
And so what of it, if it was not happening in reality anymore, the thing Catherine told Liam was happening — the thing she told him was happening often, happening whenever the circumstances could allow?
What of it, if that thing was not actually, any longer, taking place?
Because it had happened. It had happened often.
And because it was happening. It was happening, every minute of every day still, in her mind.
* * *
His hands. His lips. His eyes.
His tongue, full and supple against hers.
And already waiting — already there — and surely that meant something? Surely that meant—?
His breath. The sound of it. The sound of what happened to it.