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He stuttered a laugh and backed away, surely reading her sudden hostility. “Single. Definitely single.”
Áine made sure not to look up at him. To make it clear she didn’t care if he shared a bed. Then she swallowed the relief he didn’t catch her out in the lie when the only room left and mentioned, after all, was a single.
“That’ll be €70, including breakfast. Cash or card?”
“Oh ehm, cash works for me.” He dug into the arse of his tight jean pocket, then the other, scattered as he fumbled to take the money out along with a pancaked tissue. The awkward movement gave him an unnatural double chin and revealed a tiny tattoo below his ear which read:Always, More.
Making note of how it bled from its original line like the ink was trying to escape its own mistake, she wondered if he regretted getting something so uninspiring.
Áine slightly shook her head to scratch that personal bias. Tunnelled annoyance made her catty. She’d usually be the first to say the rule of sentiment being attached to tattoos was needless. The Ogham writing marking The Cranberries famous ‘Zombie’lyrics trailing down her entire spine was proof of that.
Through her lashes, she peeked another look at his tattoo before the words disappeared beneath his hoodie.
No, I’m not supposed to be looking.
Áine’s attention reverted to the computer to set up the key card information, but tormented by the invisible beckon of want, she made it only halfway through the task when her gaze again flicked to him.
He was counting out his notes and coins on his palm, flat, inspecting the dirty brown ones. Seeing the care he had for what most would throw away since the five-cent round-up, reminded her of another thing that bonded them; being raised poor.
The clacking of her fingers on the keyboard grew softer, more piano-like; a decrescendo to match Áine’s realisation that she shouldn’t judge this Fionn by the actions of his former self.
A literal child.
“Sorr—”
“Sorry if I said something to offend you,” he interrupted as he pushed three twenties and some change over to her.
“Oh no. You didn’t.” She frowned with emphasis rather than anger. “Promise.” She handed him his key card in exchange for the money. “I meant what I said. It is nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you too. Honestly. It’s icing on the cake.”
“What’s the cake?”
“Eh . . .” He rubbed his tame but bushy brow before tapping the card on the desk. “So, the room number?”
“It’s twenty-eight.”
“Thanks.”
A hollow suddenly weighed in Áine’s stomach the way it always did when she experienced something lovely but knew it was coming to an end. A “bittersweet belly”, her grandmother used to call it. That reminded her; Gran’s death hadn’t crept up on Áine since leaving school. Instead, her granny was there one day knitting newborn hats for the hospital, and the next she was gone, lowered into the ground beside Grandad; her on the leftand him on the right, just how they had slept for the sixty years previous.
How it was supposed to be.
Snapping out of her reverie, formality overcame Áine in imitation of a mime swiping a white glove over his changing face;
Sad, and then happy.
“And will that be all?”
His mouth hung as he considered her question.
She wanted to push her finger into it to see what he’d do. The urge escalated and flushed her cheeks when she leaned into the opportunity to admire his stubble and longish hair and how handsome it all made him. How that, and the way he’d filled out, made her fleetingly fantasise the opportunity to placehimon her scratch map.
“Yeah, that’s everything,” he said eventually. “I’ll see you in the morning if you’re still here. Maybe we’ll catch up some more over a few sausages and rashers.” He slid his bag back onto his shoulder, eyes rounding, perhaps hoping her answer would be yes.
Her own eyes dropped to her pressed-together shoes. She shuffled the left one lower to match the slight discrepancy in their evenness.
“Fuck, has Dublin made a vegan out of you?” he asked so unexpectedly loud, her gaze returned in a beat. “Sorry, I feel a bit out of touch with things like that. We could just have the toast too. But then I suppose the butter wouldn’t be vegan either. And then we might as well be on pilgrimage if we’re eating nothing but dry fucking toast.” It was a boisterous ramble more to himself by the end.
