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He edged back on his ankles a fraction, seemingly a little unsure what to do with himself for her forward response she herself wasn’t sure would be accepted by a wider circle of feminists. Yet, it gave Áine a further sense of power with him she wasn’t used to. Not two seconds later did anxiety hug her chest in case she’d broken the very first rule of her homestead;don’t be rude.
“You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me tonight then?” She nodded toward his friends.
He looked their way too over his shoulder, using the free second to fix the collar of his woollen plaid shirt.
He swallowed before returning his focus to her. “No, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t think I’d ever have said that.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him.
“You look nice tonight, by the way,” he said with a nod toward her outfit. “I meant to say that a minute ago. Not sure why the words didn’t come out . . .” he drifted off.
“Nice, but not nice enough to kiss,” she dared, letting the suggestive element sink in as she took the first sip from her pint. In his stretched silent response, her heart foolishly began to beat faster. That there was a reasonable explanation for why he left her on the riverbank.
Using his fingers, the ones she once or maybe even now wished to touch her face, he ran them over his own quitenervously. Nervous because she thought there was a slight shake to them she hadn’t ever seen. Unless it was the drink.
“I should have.”
“What?”
“I should have kissed you,” he said as a matter of fact.
Áine really did roll her eyes then despite him saying similar to what she’d hoped. But it felt called for. In the messed-up relationship they had before tonight, she found herself to be so trusting of him, and now, nothing. All she felt was scepticism toward his words he might not remember tomorrow.
“Come outside with me, Áine. ”
I have nothing to lose.
“Yeah. Alright.”
“Will we go to the smoking area or the front where it’s quieter or . . .” His question drifted as he thumbed towards both suggested places.
“I don’t smoke, remember?” she said, teasing.
Whether he understood the reference she couldn’t say, but after some more pointless chit-chat the itch of curiosity began to burrow into her thoughts, forcing her to be the one to actually go outside and hear whatever it was he seemed to be trying to tell her.
When he followed, a fleeting temptation came over Áine to take his hand to lead him. She clenched her glass tighter at its base.
Outside, she settled against the poorly painted windowsill of the pub where the breeze was lighter. She jabbed her nail into the lump of black paint where it bubbled. Small drops of rain were beginning to turn the ends of her hair curly again.
Fionn said hello to two passersby who were finding it difficult to walk in their heels on the very narrow street of cobbles. It had gotten dark since they had been inside, which didn’t help the two girls matter much.
With just the two of them left to populate the suddenly quiet area, Fionn lit a cigarette, exhaling with such relief in his craned neck that it almost made Áine envy his dependency on something so outwardly gratifying.
Áine only ever had herself to depend on, and no relief came to her in knowing that.
“So did you want to talk to me about something or . . .” She drifted with the insinuation of her folding arms that Fionn might be bothering her rather than the cold itself.
A little awkward in how he held himself crooked, he downed his drink and stepped closer, close enough that his aftershave tempted her eyelids to flutter.
“Right, yeah. I suppose it would look that way with me coming over and buying your drink and asking you to come outside.”
“I suppose it would.” Áine didn’t say this to be short. She just worried the longer she spent with him alone, the more her hopes would cruelly resurface.
“I know this is going to sound really stupid because it is but”—he inhaled his cigarette before flicking most of it into the darkness—“sometimes when I’m talking to you about things . . . when I’m describing something to you, I wish I could do it ten times over. Repeat the same point so you could pick from them the parts that most impressed you. And those parts combined would be the precedent I would always need to strive for when talking to you.” And there it was, blooming from the pit of her stomach—hope. “Fuck.” He laughed and shook his head. “Maybe I’m drunk.”
Áine stood with the aim to say something. Anything which might make him say what he truly meant by that.
To her unexpected relief, she didn’t need to say anything at all, because it was Fionn who moved with intention, handscupping her round cheeks upwards to kiss her with such conviction she stumbled back a step or two.
