It seems forever he has been sitting here. This
folding chair, this Formica table, in the middle of this nondescript little bookstore on the edge of
town, the edge of reality...
The same faces, the same phrases The same expressions, awe, hero
worship, the desire to know "So wonderful, I truly felt for her". "So dark, He's really scary." The
same ache in his hand, quiet desperation and resignation "So necessary," says his agent "don't you want
to be famous?" So costly, missed his mother's funeral, his wife's icy voice on the phone, informing
him of the solicitor's visits, the divorce in his absence. So many thousands of miles away, in the
center of his homesickness.
He doesn't care now, he is too used to these places, the aches, the lack
of sleep. The platitudes, handed out like communion wafers, the knowing smiles of those who know nothing.
"To even" she says, her accent so close to home, different to the American, Southern twang or
nasal drawl, to which he has become accustomed. "Even or aiobhann?" He asks, eliciting a peal of delighted
laughter. She claps her hands, this tall, narrow woman, with flashing eyes and pearly smile, cascading
sable hair. 'With love from across the water' He writes. 'Not many left now, ' he thinks, then
realizes she is the last. On impulse, he asks her for a drink, his heart pounding at this forbidden thing, desire
denied for his art, his vows. Graciously she accepts, His heart pounds faster.
They talk of
inconsequential things in this quiet bar, as he eats an overcooked burger, sips warm, watery beer. So
close, yet so far away from home. She talks of his books, yet nothing of herself. She fingers the
Celtic cross on the lapel of his tatty bike jacket, and later the an sate cross at his throat. "A religious man?"
She asks, mocking. "No," He murmurs, kissing her breast. "Death in life, life in death" She sighs with
resignation. He raises his head to look at her face in the darkness, but she'll not look at him again,
will say no more. Only draws him back, draws him into herself. He takes solace in this simple thing;
feels lonely and not alone
She is gone in the morning. He is woken by a sunlight that hurts,
through the curtains. He feels weak, drained, aches worse than ever. There is blood on the pillow where
He has been sleeping. Slowly He pulls Himself from this hard bed and wonders in the mirror, at the marks
at his throat.
He wonders still, through these dark, small towns. His ink now the blood, His
parchment the flesh. He looks for her, His night companion, His dark beloved. He seeks, but does not
find Her solace, His rest. He still aches, yearns, desires. He is still alone.
