Same Love - 4. Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Darragh sat quietly and attentively. Every so often, his absent expression conjured up into a radiant smile. I had ceased cracking jokes; his undivided attention needed to be with the face painter. There was still that giddy, flutter like energy roaming in the air. It's not entirely because it was St. Patrick's Day, but perhaps it's because at 14 he's getting his face painted. Nothing too fancy just a couple of shamrocks nestled across his plump red cheeks accompanied by an odd flag. When he asked, could he get his face painted, I didn't take him seriously.

Though when I said, "you're not serious?" He just gave me a deadpan expression, and I guess that was all I needed to answer my messy thoughts.

Darragh has always been that sort of boy. He may be soft in his approach; however, once you get to know him, he's crazy. Not bad crazy, it's a good type of mad. If his personality is not enough to make you smile, then I don't know what is. He's funny, caring, thoughtful, and cute. I never thought that I'd actually fall for a boy with red hair, blue eyes and a small offering of freckles dashed across his nose. It just adds to his overall beauty; it's weird when I phrase it like that but yeah… I love it when his hair is naturally curly; it's not obsessive or bizarre, it's light. The turn of events that has happened today has just added to my admiration for him. I think I'm falling in love.

Nobody knows that I'm gay, well except for Darragh. I came out to him about two or three months ago, although the reality at the moment is that I'm gay for him. I've never felt this way for any other boy, but there is something about Darragh that makes me weak in the knees. My heart begins to palpitate in my chest every time I see him walking the corridor in school. My hands become clammy anytime he unloads his house keys, phone, wallet, whenever he's climbing a high wall or fence. Though that's not enough; even the thought of him climbing up such a colossal structure is enough to make me worry. I'm not sure if that feeling is mutual: I mean the anxious feeling I get in the pit of my stomach just watching him scale the side of a building is immense. I know it's common decency to panic when you love someone, and I don't mean love as in appreciating someone. What I really mean: is shit… I have no idea what I mean. All I know is that I'm afraid that he'll fall. Every time he's done it though I'm grateful to hear the chirpy raspy voice when he reaches solid ground.

Prior to Darragh's face painting session, we had only gotten something to eat before the parade. Now that the march is actually over I wonder what the evening has in store for us. Maybe I can ask him to throw an all-nighter at my house, munching on junk food, playing some Xbox and listening to some tunes. Having an evening alone with him is something that I'd appreciate very much, not in a weird way. Then in some odd, precarious, most undoubtedly ridiculous notion I'll tell him that I love him. But then again when I think of it logically like that, that will never come true. This is real life, not a Disney movie. It's been so long since I first set my eyes on him that I forget the actual day we first met. Although if I was to take an educated guess, I think it was the first Monday we started school in first class. Vaguely from what I remember Darragh had been standing at the top of the classroom, bashful and nervous. Since I knew a couple of the kids from my previous school years, I had never encountered Darragh before. And since I was in need of new friends, I decided to march up the aisle and introduce myself. The first thing that I remember about him was when he smiled. His lips parted, his teeth showed; well, what was left accordingly at the time. I recall that he had no front teeth in his mouth. His approach to my introduction was coy and innocence. It seemed playful, full of life and animated. Still to this day nothing has changed. Well, his teeth did grow back of course, and the addition of braces. I find that ultimately attractive about him. What's not to like, he's cute; he has red hair: blue eyes and his face is not smothered in freckles, they're just a light dusting. And anytime he rolls up his sleeves…. god…. He is the perfect example of male beauty. Just about anything seems to make him cute these days and his little deed now where he's getting his face painted is somehow adorable.

As I stand, blending in with the crowd, I can't help but notice that some girls over by the large iron statue are looking at him. I guess he does have that aura about him. It's like one of those moments where you walk down the street, and you see a handsome boy or pretty girl, and you just know that they are beautiful. Well yeah, that explains everything about Darragh, he's attractive to everybody around him. That worries me I guess, I mean I'll never get a shot at actually telling him how I feel. Before I know it, he'll be taken away by a girl, and all of these stupid congested feelings will have been for nothing.

The petite pictogram of the Irish flag and the loose assortment of green shamrocks make him wonderfully hypnotic.

It makes me so nervous every time Darragh strays his dreamy eyes from the woman whose painting his face to me; it's almost as if he's searching for some moral understanding, that this is funny or at least to him it is. Then he averts his eyes back to the woman, and then that tingly feeling in the bottom, my stomach just disappears. I feel like an idiot for standing here waiting for him to finish, can't the woman go any faster. But then again if it makes him look cute then take all the time that is needed. I guess art takes time to master, and if it's rushed, it will probably look crappy.

All at once, my breathing is shallow, I feel a little ditzy and anxious at the same time. The young woman lowered her paintbrush after adding the final stroke upon his left cheek before plopping it into a dirty cup of water. Darragh rose from the seat, glanced at me and gave a grin. The young woman who had been painting him just glanced up at him smiling at Darragh before averting her attention to the next child who wanted their face painted.

"What do you think?" Darragh asked.

Giving him a thorough look over, I signal a thumbs up and say, "looks great."

If I wasn't bashful at the moment, I sure as hell am now. Since we still had a bit of time to kill, I thought that going into the shopping centre would be a good idea, considering it is a little cold outside, and after all, we have nothing better to do.

The two of us began walking down the length of O'Connell Street until I finally asked, "hey do you want to go to the Ilac…"

Darragh seemed to have drifted off into a different alternative universe as we strolled along.

He contemplated for a moment before saying, "do you have shopping to get."

I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "no, it's just… it's cold, and I guess... We can hang out there for a bit."

With a nod from Darragh, the two of us just navigated down one of the side streets in Dublin, the name of which escapes me. Eventually, we came out beside the Ilac. Before too long, we stepped foot through the automatic door. The heater above warmed our cold ears and exposed heads. We dawdled around for a little bit, unsure of what to actually do. Although, I guess it's better than being outside in the cold. Eventually, Darragh stopped at a two-euro shop, we both went inside.

Upon exiting Darragh had bought four cans of silly string. You know that stuff when you actually spray it, and it comes out like a string. He got green, white and two oranges. The moment we reached the door, the war had begun. The two of us worked against each other to get the better of the other. Darragh had the green canister; I had a white and orange. His second canister never seemed to work, so he just dropped it in the street, and the two of us still fought as hard as we could. Though again, I had the advantage over him. By the time we had finished we had ended back up on O'Connell Street, his hair is littered with white and orange ropes of string. I don't know what it was about it, but it was cute, and something about it made me feel proud that I had done it. After a while, we took a turn off, a shortcut down a side street with not much foot traffic.

Unsure of why we took this optimum route, I just followed along with all the same. After a moment, Darragh stopped in the middle of the alley, hunched over and started ruffling his fingers through his hair. His exuberant laugh was still in place, and everything about him at this moment was exactly perfect. As I watch himself brush off the stragglers of multi-coloured string, I have a sudden urge to want to kiss him. I want to help somehow though I know that is not going to happen.

When he turned back around, he asked, "is all of it gone?"

Glancing high and low, I reached up and brushed a couple of specs away that were still nestled in his hair, and then I lightly brushed over his shoulders. Though something had changed, he was just staring at me as I did it. When I noticed that he was staring intently at me, that same familiar feeling of anxiety worked its way up from the pit of my stomach to my chest. I felt a little bit uncomfortable, so I decided to stop; everything is quiet. I could feel the warmth radiating from his mouth, gracing my face. The way his freckles danced lazily across his nose, his vibrant blue eyes peering at me, and his fiery amber hair so perfect. I felt my heart swoop to his level. He really is beautiful, and I guess if I don't snap out of it, he'll think that something is wrong with me.

The two of us didn't move. I still stood fixed in place. Darragh glanced from left to right; he had become a little nervous. Darragh slowly extended his arm out, pinched small flays of artificial string from my head and dropped it. A tingle rose up from my tummy and forced its way all the way up to my throat.

It feels like bubbles or something; my heart is beginning to hammer my chest, my breathing shallow, then Darragh spoke, "Jack, are you frigid?"

The question took me off course completely. I wasn't expecting Darragh to ask me something like that. And of all things, why is he asking me that. Unsure of how to appear as if I'm not one when I most certainly am one since I had never kissed anyone before I stuttered on my words.

"No… I'm not…"

I guess my persuasion attempt was useless. Darragh crinkled one side of his mouth and drew it up into a grin. I wasn't sure where this was going, but my heart stopped when he spoke.

"Well, what are you waiting for... Kiss me then," Darragh said.

Did he see through my lie?

Unsure if I understood him correctly, I waited for a moment until he widened his eyes and gave me a nod. Perhaps he is genuine, and with that, I cautiously, being petrified leaned in closer, so close that I could feel his breath caressing my lips. Then our lips met, the seismic action set off shock waves coursing through my body, it was electric. I got all jittery and nervous, and happy all at the same time. Darragh held his same stupid smirk as he broke the kiss and stepped away from me. He walked away from me a little, stumbling forward before pivoting his head over his shoulder.

Darragh asked, "well… you' coming."

I smiled bashfully and ambled forward after him. Awh… my first kiss and it was wonderful.

 

* * *

 

Caoimhe was running late. I'll never get how that girl can always manage to be both on time, yet leave home at the very last minute. If she possessed some magic superpower that I did not know she owned, then I want in on some of that awesomeness. It's St. Patrick's Day, and us two girls are going to the parade. Possibly somewhere along the way into the centre of town, I'll be able to tell Caoimhe that she is a dote.

God, I can't remember how long it's been since I first met her. It occurred at college during a lecture, and she looked haplessly lost… right? Yet, the silly girl succeeded in finding the right homeroom.

Today ought to be good. Once I get a couple of drinks into me, for Dutch courage precisely, I'll be able to tell my maiden I have an immense crush on her.

Standing outside the back-entrance gate leading onto Stephen's Green, I await her arrival, like always. Leaning upon the concrete pillar for the entry, I glance at people going by, and I find myself wondering if any other folks like me have an insanely, overdramatic, adorable, melodramatic, cutie of a best friend. Still, nonetheless, the girl is perfect in every essence of the word for me.

I watch as the Irish all flood toward O'Connell Street in preparation for the parade. This year should be good, I read some things in the newspaper about the sort of attractions we'll have this year, and to be honest, at 22 I am super hyped.

Meeting at Stephen's Green makes the most logical sense, considering Caoimhe lives about 15 minutes to the left, and me to the right. It has grown into a tradition for both of us to attend the festivities. In a way, we have looked out for one another, and it gives me a sentiment of proudness to be able to watch over my friend.

Except, I wish I had brought a jacket; it is a little cooler than I initially thought. I don't believe it is as chilly as last year, or for the week gone by, but at least it's not raining.

Caoimhe's personality has forever been one to admire. The girl is insanely wild, incredibly sweet, humorous and carefree. She picks me up when I'm down with inappropriate banter.

Although the girl of my dreams is slightly large in stature, I could care less because her personality is the winning prize. Only, I never thought I'd fall helplessly in love with a ginger girl, with hazel eyes and an adorable smile. Caoimhe takes great pride in her appearance, on any given day, her hair is let to drape past her shoulders. At University anytime I see her, I can't help but stare in awe at the cascading locks of red hair.

I often worry when she drives home to her parents in the countryside. Any time Caoimhe

leaves the capital; I standby waiting to receive a message mentioning that she made it safely to her destination. Knowing what I know always fills me with warmth, comprehending she is safe.

Okay, focus Sophie… How am I going to tell Caoimhe that she is beautiful today? Perhaps I shouldn't say that; she might take offence and assume I am stating she is not gorgeous on every given day.

Could I just say it ever so casually while we're getting hot food at the deli? Yes, it could work; I can say I love you to her when picking out sausages from the deli when we get hungry… No wait that won't work either.

Somehow, there is a sexual innuendo to that concept floating around my head now.

Sensing an anxious presence rupture in my stomach, I decided to skip the pondering and observe people passing by. I hope I'm not overdressed for the parade. Everyone else is wearing gimmicky costume wear, while I am dressed as if I'm going out on a date.

"Sophie… Sophie," someone called from the left side of the pillar.

Pivoting to the source of the racket; running toward me, Caoimhe came bounding over with a smirk bestowed among her face and donned in gimmicky clothing. The Irish flag draped from her neck and swayed like it were in high winds. The closer Caoimhe

drew the more detail I attune to. Her face had already been painted with variations of the flag, shamrocks, and also a leprechaun. I couldn't help but laugh. Some deep part of me let loose, and I snickered hard at my friend's randomness. To top her outfit off Caoimhe

wore a leprechaun hat. Caoimhes' regular clothes lay hidden beneath all the added attire. My chest virtually welcomes tingly electricity. One which made my cavity seem like it was ripped open from the astonishing surprise of seeing her like this. Placing my hands on my knees, I keel over and go from a giggle to full-on bellyaching.

"What?" Caoimhe asked sceptically.

"What are you wearing," I stated, pointing at her ridiculous get up.

"Paddy's' day stuff."

Both of us laughed it off for a moment until I caught on that my heart is racing, my mind swimming and I'm getting the shakes knowing what I know now that I am standing in front of her.

Exchanging pleasantries, we set off rambling on about our mornings and how the day had been hectic. However, in an odd rise of events, I somehow forget entirely of what is on my mind and ease into a conversation rather than being pent up on having to tell my best friend how I feel.

We merged with the growing population converging on O'Connell Street. Everywhere I look, it is incredibly crowded. A vendor on the side of the street is selling flags; people press together like an accordion against steel barriers. The distant muttering increases and the noise produced from the mass gathering of people results in me having to raise the pitch of my voice slightly to be able to talk to Caoimhe.

Observing what everyone else is wearing, I conclude, I am overdressed. Peering to the vendor selling fairy hats, green, white and orange flags and a handful of other assortments, I wander over.

"Where are you going," Caoimhe questioned.

Spinning around, I grinned meekly, "to get Paddy's day stuff."

Twirling around I go to walk, only two boys dart out in front of me, and I jump. I peep after the pair and grin at how alike they were to Caoimhe and me when we were younger. I'm not sure if I should be calling someone eighteen, but I felt as alive as I could be back then. So free and full of life. Not that we are solemn when it comes to our friendship of today. Just, when we were fresh out of school, the world was our oyster.

A blond-headed boy raced after the kid leading, an adorable ginger, shouting, "wait, Darragh, I can't catch my breath."

I followed as the lads disappeared, and continued with my mission.

Given such information; Caoimhe accompanied me to the stand where I bought a flag and a leprechaun cap. The vendor smiled warmly, and in return, I beamed back. Plopping the hat on my head, dawning the Irish flag around my neck, I turn to Caoimhe and ask for assurance.

She reached out, tilting the leprechaun hat additionally forward on my head and said, "perfect."

Strolling from the merchant, Caoimhe and I pushed our way through a handful of people until we found a rift in the bystanders leaning against the metal barriers. Elbowing our way into the centre of the break, I steady my arm on the grating and look up and down the street. On the road, a handful of Garda and news personalities runabout. Caoimhe followed suit and braced herself with both elbows, and the conversation between us quietened down.

Having a moment to contemplate is not always an option when Caoimhe is around. Except, when she is, I can't do any other activity that reflects deeply about how I feel toward her. Clandestinely, I sneak a peek. From the corner of my eye, I can see her limbs resting on the barricade. I can sense she is smiling as Caoimhe naturally does. I'm not sure what I am more nervous about, me telling her, or the parade. Well, the march is not worrying, it is more nervous excitement. Do I wait until after the show or explain to her how I feel now.

A camera crew pushes in on our side of the fence and films people standing, waiting for the show to begin. I smile as the rig passes by and then return to my reflection.

I'll wait, I'll play it smoothly until the thing is easier and much louder. Possibly Caoimhe will think she misheard me when I say the wrong word that will get her all mad and hate me for having these feelings toward her.

Since I first met her, I knew something was inherently different about this girl. Caoimhe was cute, she still is, but nothing made sense as to why I respond the way I do. Even after all these years, I believe sometimes I am drowning here, and a small part of me wants to tell her because it seems like I am going crazy with all the noise happening inside my head. The voices never stop, they are so self-critical. Sometimes it's hard to crawl out of bed in the morning, I hate most things I do. Hell, I don't even have nice handwriting, although Caoimhe makes all my struggles appear like a calm breeze on the mediterranean sea.

Out of earshot, growing in volume, the thumping and thudding of drums and carnival alert to the waiting crowd the festivities are underway. I peer over at the beautiful young woman beside me and smile apprehensively at what is to come. Soon a motorcade of bikes snail's by with men and women waving to either side of the divide. I glance around in exhilaration at the surrounding people. Many kids are happy and having a good time. Oh, I wonder what it would be like to grow up in this time and place. Things have really changed since I was a kid and well, I suppose there is the presumption that you must excel.

Watching a flotilla being pushed from behind, a group of young adults about our age sprawled flexible bodies from the top of a contraption shaped like a boat. The group are dressed like mimes, some hangover the bow, one is spinning the wheel frantically, and the rudder is guiding the ship across the tarmac, and high above in the crow's nest a man is dangling and is frantically wiggling. I chuckle, and turn to Caoimhe, she is beaming back at me, and I sense my tummy whoosh with increased awareness.

"Do you see him," I said, pointing at the guy on the mast.

Caoimhe giggles, and states, "that would be you up there," she teases while prodding her elbow with mine.

"Stop! That's more like you up there; even the complexation is uncanny," I jib back.

Both of us snicker and watch as the float passes. Soon a set of drummers are in front of us on the road; hammering their rhythm like a death squad… No small-time timpanist here. Another float comes and goes; where a giant inflatable snake with an abundance of colours rolls in. Caoimhe and I discuss the stunning vividness, we laugh and somehow time seems to slow drastically for me every time she laughs. Her teeth are perfect, her grace, even the soft shade of shy when she plays coy.

My legs ache from standing so long, I set both hands on the fence and try to take the pressure off my knees. I am enjoying the company, I can tell Caoimhe is feeling the same. It's one of those things you just understand, there is no need for comprehending. A magic surge soaks my insides with bliss, and I ponder how lucky I am to have her here with me. I can't think of a better place for me, and neither would I dare.

Thump… Thump… TUM… TUM… TUM… Thump... The bangs carry over the assemblage. Another marching band is on the way I conclude. I look at Caoimhe sheepishly, the sun is warming the crown of my head. The smell of sweet syrup in the air, with the cold on my back and my fingers, clasped firmly to the barrier in front, I peak at Caoimhe's right hand, only centimetres from my own.

The booms from the band turn to sharp ringing in my ears, and my heart rate rapidly increases. In a bold and daring move, I find the willpower to ease my fingers loose from a clasped position on the bar and slide it across the steel girder, and gently I stroke her pinky. I look forward into the street out of fear, I don't want to hear the words, get away from me. Instead, a returning stroke on my little finger gives me the goosebumps.

I twist my head to Caoimhe, I lay my eyes on hers, she stares back. There is a friendly presence to her expression. I swipe nervously again at her pinky, she imitates the action.

The marching band is in front of us now, my heart is pounding like their drumsticks. A seriousness falls on Caoimhe's face, and for all the courage I have, I lean forward and plant a peck on Caoimhe's cheek. I lean back gauging her reaction, yet, when she smiles, I smile, and all I know is that my ears hurt tremendously, as my heart sings with the drums.

In time, my heartbeat goes Thump… Thump… TUM… TUM… TUM.

 

* * *

 

Dark clouds came from the direction of Athlone. Hidden beneath the shrouded cover, the gloom blocked out what little sunlight was cascading on the surrounding hillsides. The farmstead lay in the shadow, and I second-guessed why I am out here in the overcast coolness hosing down manure off of Dad's tractor.

You see, Dad is a board member on the town festivities. He has always been that type of guy; one who likes to flaunt his persona in front of people for the sake of it. Dad was like, "for St. Patrick's Day, the guys on the committee thought it would be a great idea to have a tractor in the mix seeing that we are in the countryside. What is a Parade without some farming machines?"

So, to keep my Mam happy and my Dad off my back, I agreed to drive the tractor through the centre of town. I'm not saying the duty is bad or cringy. I have never let my origins strand me for what I wish to do. However, I'd have preferred to be with Eánna for the day, rather than having to set aside time to toil on my father's contraption because a track through a neighbours' field covered the rig in shit. So, drudgingly, after washing the entire cab and the wheels yesterday, it has returned to a yucky mess this morning.

One thing I am regretting is having rode through the swamped-out pasture. Take a shortcut, I said… it'll be quicker… but noooo… Instead, I got bogged down with a sinking rear wheel. Now of all the things that can happen to me on a day like today… getting lodged in a hole was not one I'd even be able to come up with for the sake of mockery. I still need to shower, and I have to pick up Eánna. He said he'd accompany me to the showcase if I picked him up before I left. Therefore, all in all, I am running around like a headless chicken trying to get ready.

Yet, now as I hose the mud and crap away, I can't be bothered to rush any further. I'll get there when I am good and ready I affirm. Except, I know Dad will have a hissy-fit if I don't arrive on time. Just I'd prefer to make it to the destination in one piece. The year which has gone by has been a tough time for many families and farmers in the area. In the winter, our neighbour four doors down lost his wife and daughter to a car accident. I used to go to school with the daughter, she was a nice girl. Not that I took much notice in her beauty, sure I could tell she was pretty, but she never did anything for me.

The car had skidded on a patch of black ice and slid along the road before toppled into a drainage ditch. Both drowned before they could be helped as the car lay on its roof and since the gully was not wide enough, they couldn't open the doors. Ten minutes after the accident occurred, the first tractor driving by had been the father, but in the confusion and panic to get the car out of the trench, the man did not notice it was his wife's car until he pulled it over the embankment. They were a lovely family before, however, now, the guy keeps mainly to himself.

In the summer, we lost some crops, and before summertime, we had a huge freeze and snowstorm. My horse had a foal, but it died, it wasn't strong enough. The ground was too solid to bury the animal, so we had to burn it. I still wish I hadn't done that. I guess farm life is my life. I have zero hobbies, other than hanging out with Eánna. Zilch crushes, no history of girlfriends or boyfriends. Just a single kiss from a dead girl who I seemed sexually unresponsive toward. I wouldn't class what we shared as my first kiss, because I didn't feel anything. At first, when she was alive, I thought it was due to me not having any interest in her, but soon girls, in general, didn't seem appealing. Sometimes it's like I don't care about sex and all that stuff. It's not that it makes me sick, or feel horrible, it's just… I don't feel as strongly about having to be intimately close to people. Sure, I hug, kiss goodbye when the need arises, however, when I am alone with my thoughts, I just reflect… that's it.

Sighing, I point the nozzle of the tube higher to get under the mudguard. The plume of water shot out of the pipe and sprayed under the guard. A concoction of mud and foamy water gurgled and fizzed as the caked layer of sludge dropped to the rubber below and tracked down the slanted grooves of the tire to the ground.

The accumulation slopped on the gravel and now marshy ground.

Some distance off, a crunching on grit alerted me of someone's arrival. Without having a chance to step out to see who it was, my questions are answered when the voice carries out.

"Cian, that you?"

Grinning, I step out acting as if I am surprised that he is here. I knew Eánna would not have the patience to wait for me to come to collect him.

"Yeah," I boasted as I shot out from behind the tractor.

Forgetting how high I had the hose aimed the continuous surge travelled through space and time, landing short of Eánna runners. Realizing how dangerously close to wetting him I am, I lower the stream to the ground where it purled and rammed into the ground at a jagged angle.

Eánna chuckled, "every time you get a little bit closer to wetting me."

"Almost," I laugh.

With a flick of the wrist, an army of translucent beads speed through the air and drench the front of his sweatshirt. The look of betrayal and utter horror spread across his face from the cold contact. It wasn't my intention to wet him, I was only playing.

"Give me that hose," Eánna rebuked.

I took off around the rear of the tractor with Eánna hot on my tail. The lead slithered behind me. I ran for my life… but not in fear, more in light-hearted concession. I began to giggle, unable to control my urge to hold-in my amusement concerning the predicament.

I dislodge pebbles; the water trickles and wafts with the flurry wind, and splashes me in the process as I absently retract my hand into my body to run. Except I clench tightly to the tube in preoccupation and just run. I don't think of the pipe in my hand, that is until I feel the cold swell and burn against my warm skin.

Getting ready to fling the hose it is violently ripped from my arm. I pivot over my shoulder, to see Eánna, whose foot had stomped down on the rubber. The garden line gave off a small thwack as it grazed the surface. I apply the brakes, I abruptly stop, slant backward, rotate my legs, and I am spiriting for the weapon between the both of us. Eánna is not stupid either, he hurls himself forward at an equal measure, to the point I am debating twisting around. I think he is going to get the water soaker before me.

Reaching, seizing, I pluck it up, and the two of us bash into each other in scrummage fashion. I tilt the flow of cold water over Eánna; the cold soaks my arm and hand. Yet, equally, it saturates Eánna's mousy brown hair. Mashed together, we both toppled down to the ground, Eánna's sweatshirt hoody flopped over his head, obscuring his vision. With his squirming and shrieks, Eánna manages to find a weak spot as we cling to one another on the ground. Shifting leverage; weight is pressed down on me. I scrunch up my abdominals to try to force all my body mass against the friction so that I don't touch off the earth. Except, after some shoving and pushing, Eánna applies stress to my right hand with the hose, resulting in the stream dousing my face. A couple of frantic screams and my jacket and sweatshirt ride up, and I can feel the grit sticking to my back. Eánna has overpowered me, and the outflow valve is mashed between us. The systemic shock from the glacier water makes me scream. If anybody were walking by, they'd probably assume someone is getting murdered. However, this is an average day between two friends who can't take appointments seriously.

Only, my friend started pinning all his body force on me. I groan at the load applied. I try to tear myself away, but all I can do is kick around my legs. I didn't think something like this would be as tiring, but it is actually a lot more effort than I thought it could possibly be.

I wiggle all my limbs, Eánna is devilishly beaming, I know that expression. Overexerting my body, I pry loose my mangled right hand with the hose and spray him. With his left hand, he cuts off the tactic and pins my only source of escape above my head. Distracted, I tear out my left arm and stretch up. I swipe at his chin, shoving his head up, he begins to screech in pain as I press up to get him off of me. Although, with his skin slippery, the wet smoothness gave away and my hand brushes up his cheek, leaving a smudge of dirt behind. Eánna came crumbling down on me like a ton of bricks. The knock winded me, and I gasped out of recoil.

Not wasting time, Eánna fixes both arms above my head, and it is now I accept the defeat. I cease my wriggling about and take a breath. Eánna lets his body go limp on top of me, and he rhythmically pants to catch himself. I have always found certain things about Eánna to be peculiar. On occasion, I have witnessed him stare at me funny, although currently, he is looking at me with that weird look of softness.

Peering up at his delightful azure eyes, I lay victim to a falling sensation as I lose myself to his mesmerizing delights. Particles of granular sand and chipping stuck to his wet face. The grit clung to the cheek I had swiped at, and shyly in the crevice under his eye socket. His chin shared the same faith. The trickling of the water in the background carried on, and I find myself asking, 'why am I still laying here?'

My best friend shivers, and with his display, I do too.

Eánna stared with a lustful gaze, his radiance faded like the sun gloating behind cloud cover. His eyes closed and he drew his head downward, bringing his lips to mine. In an odd sense of desire and appreciation, I closed my eyes and kissed back. His lips are incredibly soft, his approach gentle. The most vitalizing moment of my young life is happening. The interaction passed in a flash, the intimate moment was over and behold, I just had my first kiss, and with a boy for all the confusing morals.

Eánna placed his hand either side of my head and boosted himself up to his hunkers. He waited for me to say something, to mention anything about what we had just shared, but confused, I didn't share my insight. With great jubilance, I deem the kiss to be the single, most endearing moment of my entire life. Yet, somewhere deep down, I didn't enjoy it, but in a profound sense of wisdom, I am glad that of all the people to share my first real kiss with, it was Eánna. At least, I felt something this time around, except as quick as it came it vanished. Even if the smooch was over and done within the blink of an eye, I appreciate the sentiment.

Nervously, Eánna added while bowing his head, "you won't tell anyone, will you?"

The words float around in my mind in the vague nothingness of my confusion. Yet, I smile, to signal I won't tell anybody anything. My best friend breathed a sigh of relief.

How is it, I have not gotten mad at the display. Should I have gotten angry at Eánna for doing what he did? Should Eánna have asked for permission to do what he did, or am I just being peevish now?

Shifting attention to my partner in crime, I haul myself up off the ground, leaving the hose behind. Taking a second to get my bearings on the situation, I focus on his eyes. His azure beauties, they tell me, I am sorry, in part worry.

I grin, "not bad," I joke.

Eánna smirks, and my heart swims upward in my chest.

"Not bad yourself," Eánna cut in.

I smile, and stand up, brushing myself off, only to stop mid-act and offer a hand out for my friend. Peering down at Eánna, he glances up to me. His eyes are as if he has welled up, and this comforts me. I extend an arm; a second later Eánna grips my hand, and I pull him up off the ground. Before long everything has been said, I turn the valve off for the hose, put it away and we both head inside, dripping and cold.

I have no idea where the moment of soaking each other came from, but this is what I want more of, the realism, the emotions. Even if it is not what happened today, something about sharing something vulnerable is empowering.

In the kitchen, Dad left the TV on after he went out. On RTE One, the parade in Dublin is getting ready to start. Since we are in the countryside, the marches commence a little later. Next on the agenda is to find dry clothes for both of us and hightail it to the parade. Scouring the counters for a TV remote, I go to switch the television off. Before I do, I see two girls standing at a metal barrier, and I find myself wondering if they share secrets like Eánna and I do.

 

* * *

 

The dull beating of a bodhrán and a chirpy melody on a fiddle carried throughout the crowded pub. The music had finally seeped into my body after being unfashionably dour most of the evening. I can't recall how many pints I've drunk. Though, whatever it is I am feeling, I don't want it to stop now.

The stress load today was incredible, all I desired to do was go to the parade. Except, I had to work behind the counter of Dooley's €2 Giant interacting with folks who waltzed in off the street in high spirits covered in green, white and orange paint and accessories.

Oh, to be young again. The power of being able to live your life free from obligation and worry resembled a wonderful notion now that I am almost thirty-five. How is it, when we grow up, all of us wish for our teenagerhood to come back. Whereas when we are fifteen, all you can think about is growing up. It makes me miss the mixed, anxious crossed feelings of becoming a young adult.

Before I left work, these two boys wandered into the shop, all giddy and overflowing with life. It reminded me of my adolescence, how I surfed the streets of Dublin with my mates, looking for girls, looking for cans and in general getting up to no good.

When the lads came to the counter to buy silly string, I grinned at them. A ginger with a shamrock painted on his face was rattling with excitement. They were having a good time, and just for a moment instead of working my dead-end job, a surge of joy flooded back. I miss those memories. If I could turn back the clock to be younger again, I would, to where I'd get dressed up and go to the disco.

Alternately, I sit modestly dressed at a bar anticipating an arrival, and if I understood what that anything is, I'd be long gone by now. Only, I am still here after all this time aren't I, I have yet to move from the stool. Mind you, the band playing tonight is okay. I reckon a couple of pints is not a poor plan certainly.

Plucking up my glass of Guinness, I tilt the tumbler and take a gulp. The strong, frothy taste floods my mouth, followed by a foamy aftertaste of creamy milk and the bitter aftertaste. The good old black stuff never disappoints, and when circumstances look gloomy all day, then it makes for the perfect supper.

Plopping the glass on the Bar, I lean back on the stool and fish out my phone from my skinny jeans pocket. I swab at the screen, as I draw the careful line from memory for my password using a pattern authentication to unlock my device. I swipe down on the notifications, I sigh. Has it been long enough, I ponder? If I don't wait for longer, does it look like I did not hang around long enough? Or do I just go? The signs are ugly, I've been stood up by the girl I met on Tinder.

Peering over my shoulder, I look to the door. I can go if I really wish to, I propose to myself. I tally the concept of leaving for the night and just going home to my empty flat, although the drink is nice, and rightly so, remains a full glass of paid beer.

Affirming my decision, I shove my iPhone back into my jeans and face the band playing in a cramped style in the corner of the crowded room. Daly's Bar is hopping tonight; there are many sights and sounds to behold, but none of it is what I turned up for.

Glumly I lift my drink off the counter and take another swallow, ensued by a larger mouthful. Placing the Guinness on the Bar, some shuffling happens to my right. Subconscious, I clandestinely peek at who is taking a seat next to me. Yet, as my eyes wander to a white floral dress of some kind with bluebirds printed all over the circumference, I shyly bring my eyes to a pair of breasts and then lock eyes with a raven-haired beauty.

She smiles; I sense my face growing beetroot red. Shifting my head ahead at the bartender on the other side of the counter, I can already hear the voice in my head, scolding me like a 13-year-old getting caught looking at boobies.

The girl returns her attention to ordering her drink, and not being able to help myself, I take another peek. The girl passes a side glance in my direction and smirks.

"What…? Haven't you seen a girl before?" she said.

A flush of anxiety surges through my body, and I look down at the pint in front of me. I reflect a moment, and my inner thoughts come with clarity. I'll offer her a drink; the idea looms and just then do I peer across at her with a hint of confidence. The bartender places the glass down in front of the woman, and I begin to pull at the pocket of my jeans.

"Please let me get the drink," I murmur.

"It's okay, I can handle it myself," the woman said.

A second of silence ensues; the bartender eyes' the both of us in a curious manner.

"I'd like to all the same," I add.

The lady looks from the server to me sceptically. Seemingly the lady allows me to purchase the alcohol for her. I figured she was alone since nobody came in tow by her company. No group of girlfriends waiting impatiently or another guy.

The girl sat down by me, pulling her stool under herself and resting her forearms on the ledge in front of us. In ease, I tilt ahead with the company I had not expected to have. The bartender carried on tending to new customers, leaving us be, but keeping a watchful eye on the girl. Every so often he'd find a reason to saunter back to our side of the Bar and make small chit-chat with us. I think the guy is looking out for her, since I am showing a little interest in her, considering she is here alone.

Another song ended, this time the singer talked to the crowd. His voice appeared oddly warm and charming. The guy injected humour into his speech, and people chuckled at the small hometown stories he shared with the audience about his exploits with the band members, then introduced his next song. Strumming the guitar, he held in front of him, which slung from a suede guitar strap, the guy sang indie.

The girl side glimpsed at me as she took a sip of her cocktail. I subconsciously scrunched up my neck in order to smell my armpit, just to make sure I don't stink. I am assuming a girl like her is single. Being here alone anyway might prove the point. Except, I can't bring myself to ask a question or flirt. What if I am not her type. Do I even have a variety? Hard to know since I haven't precisely kissed anyone. I know, 35 and I have never had my first kiss. In a way, I guess I have been saving myself for the right person if that is even a thing. Perhaps, I just let work get ahead of me and forgot about love. Over the indie tempo, I hear the lady speak.

"Stood up?" She asked.

Now here I am thinking wow… I probably do look pathetic sitting here all alone and dressed up nicely. After all, I did arrive with the intention of having a date with a girl, but she was a no-show. I believe the ship has sailed, and I can't deny that I have been duped.

"What gave it away?" I question, with a titter.

"It looks like you were rejected for a dance at a school disco."

I chuckle, scuffling feet, I nervously grind the undersole of my shoe to the footrest beneath the seat.

Seeing as she is friendly enough, I offer out my hand for a handshake, "I'm Paul."

The woman had inadvertently plucked up her cocktail and took a mouthful. In haste, she plopped the alcohol down on the surface and gave out a hand. She almost chokes from swallowing the contents of her mouth before granting a reappreciation.

"Jenifer," she declared.

I shake Jenifer's hand gently and smile, having accepted the company. I happen to notice the bracelets and other jewellery jingling around on her wrist, and how her nails are painted a coffee colour. We retract our arms, and each takes a sip of our drinks at the same time.

"So, Paul, how come you waited for a no-show."

I grin, "Oh well… I…, I don't really know to be honest. I guess I said fuck it, why not."

Jenifer chuckled nodding her head, "I get you. You thought; well I am already out, might as well have a drink or two."

"Or six," I add.

We both laugh, I glance at the barman and smile knowingly to myself how the guy appeared to back off a little now that Jenifer and I are getting along now. Mind you, the pub has gotten a little busier in the last fifteen minutes. There is a pause between my previous statement. It is at this point, I second guess if I had said something wrong, indicating that I might be a drunk, alcoholic or worse… a one beverage kind of chap.

"Well, what brings you here," I ask to keep the spark going.

"Girls night out, just the girls have gotten a little carried away and went dancing. I don't boogie; not in these heels anyway," Jenifer laughs.

I smirk, peering down to her shoes where she had kicked her right leg out from under the stool for me to take a closer look. I understand where she is coming from. I have held a few of those nights out with the boys. A session, darts or pool, dancing and then a shag in a back alleyway with some girl from a nightclub. Well, the boys would end up getting off with some woman, but not me.

"Jesus those are huge," I state, in connection with the size of the stud coming away from the stiletto.

"Well my feet ain't hurting yet," Jenifer chuckles.

I look at the dance floor and contemplate. Drawing a mouthful from the Guinness, I put the glass down on the surface. I set about kicking off my shoes and turning to her with a strike of confidence.

After some time, I gained courage.

"How about a dance," I ask.

Jenifer and I danced on the floor in front of an invisible audience after a couple more drinks. She just accepted my offer. She didn't decline.

Surely, I would be lying if the moment didn't give me a buzz. Plus, a boost in my self-confidence. By the time the enjoyment ended, my socks were black with dirt, and I hadn't taken account of how she was partying barefoot.

In the last couple of interactions, I can't help notice, I have gradually drawn closer to her in order for us to hear one another over the music. I have amassed an abundance of overly privileged questions to unquestionably unassorted advances, and as time tarried, our conversation grew attentive, and answers of varied particulars were spoken for in full.

Time progressed, and as the night grew on us, I learned that Jenifer is not only an attractive woman but undeniably intelligent, humorous and rebellious. Not that she searches for trouble, but rather sow a seed for fun and from that seed an incident can be born.

At the end of the evening, I take her phone number, kiss her goodbye, hail a taxi and gift her the money to get home. And as I watch the vehicle ferry off from the curb, a sense of complacency overcomes me. I am happy with my score and that in the coming days I'll talk to her again. Might I add that kissing her was wondrous, and rightly so I am a thirty-five-year-old virgin, and I just had my first wonderful kiss.

Extending an arm, I wait for a taxi. I reflect on the evening and decide to walk on a bit toward home, lacking the luck to get a car to pick me up.

Approaching the Heineken building the dial at the top of the structure illuminated in purple said 11:52 PM. In a sheer second of luck, I see a taxi parked close to the curb. With great effort, I rush across the pavement toward the white vehicle, with bright blue and yellow decals. I pluck open the rear door of the taxi, pile into the centre of the seat and gaze through the safety guard at two gentlemen in the front.

"Home, please," I slur.

"What the hell," the driver snorted.

The two looked to one another and laughed. I gave a hearty display as we pulled away from the pathway. I may be drunk, but I don't remember taxi's having a protector divide in the car.

"I'll give die… directions," I hiccup.

"Home it is," the passenger murmured.

The car drove down The Quay's and merged with traffic. I advised the driver to turn at the Samuel Beckett Bridge. Except, we drove by the traverse, and a series of flashing blue lights twinkled above the car. A sense of panic; followed by humiliation floods my intoxicated body. I know now what sort of taxi, I inadvertently stepped foot into.

 

* * *

 

A storm is coming, I can tell you that. I can distinguish the peculiar sensation as it grazes my head, skims my cheeks and tangles my hair. Well, it typically does, and that can only be spoken for with continuous gusts of chilled Atlantic air.

As quiet as a whisper, the rush of the ocean in the distance roars its power, slamming waves into the cliffs. The breeze laments, and somewhere up there in the sky, where I crank my head up, the glow of the sun warms my face, regularly disappearing behind rain clouds.

I don't get to do this often, except when I do, it makes me breathe easier, relax and feel at peace with nature. I'd sit there on the bench all day if I could, listening to the birds hovering above, the tides drawing in and out, people sauntering by on the boardwalk, children riding bicycles. It must be some forty years since I rode one of those, and how I can tell it is a bike is from the ticking sound from the wheels. How I affirm the rider is a child; the clunking noise reverberating from the chain and pedals every time a kid back-pedals and then drives onward. It would be nice every so often to be able to observe these comings and goings, only I lost the power of my eyesight at the start of my twenties.

Today has been swell; on the contrary, my husband brought me out for the day. Happily married 50 years, we both have returned to the spot we first kissed some 53-years prior to making the arrangements to be wed. Unconditionally, neither of us foresaw that we both shared our first smooch on Paddy's Day, and for the first time, back then I felt complete since many folks skipped over me in the form of love due to my disability. Though not John… John came onto me, and it surprised me, not only was I thrilled to have a male companion, however, to have someone to hold me that way and after weeks of flirtation, we gave into the idea.

I reckon meeting someone for the first time and requesting permission to touch their face is unusual compared to other folks previous dating arrangements. Except, for me anyway, John was my first, at twenty-two it was, and after all these years the love is still burning, and my husband is still a deep desire in my chest. There is something profoundly beautiful recognising that after fifty years, five children and twelve grandkids, and a roof over our heads, all I needed was the nurturing and affectionate respect of someone who didn't care that I was blind.

On this day 53 years previously, we had come from the St Patrick's Day parade in Galway city centre and decided to drive down south toward Clare. John stated he was getting a little stiff from driving and in our muddles, we chose to stop beside an old phone booth with a bench, by a town that overlooked some rolling greenway, and then after some feet a hillock, where the world dropped off into the crashing Atlantic below. Well, that's what John always said. Even if I couldn't see it, by god, I can hear it! It's the sound I fell in love with, and this little piece of heaven has become an escape away from reality. Years have gone by, and the spot is still a blip on the map compared to other tourist destinations on the west coast. It almost feels as if it is our own.

It was here we shared our first kiss, and on the same seat, I am sitting on. Fumbling around the stone chair, I brush my fingertips along the gritty surface, searching for what was left 53-years beforehand. Then I found it, a sudden dip in the façade, my fingernails scratched the stone, and in a small hallow, I felt for it. Still, the etching remained after all these years, and rightly, every year of our return it has remained a hidden piece of history that transpired many years ago and relieves its purpose every year upon our return.

When we were young, John filed down a portion of the surface to carve a picture of a heart into the seat, and from there my husband engraved our initials into the stonework. I stroke the dusty exterior, tracing the worn letters under my fingertips; it's all still here, the J for John and C for Collins. On the other side of a small space between the names, A for Abigail remained and F for Fitzgerald. Who would have known a puppy love could turn to a real and higher love?

Both of us were incredibly nervous when we sat in this spot. I for one surmised it was time to kiss, and after four months of dating, I finally let him kiss me, right here, in the very spot I am seated. Though, yes, he made a move.

Peering across in the direction of John, I tried to envision how he looked all those years ago.

I hear myself asking, "can I feel your face?"

John gave a nervous chuckle after all these years, his devotion still comes through when I ask that question. I guess it's not as easy to ask one so you can remember what they look like, you naturally grow attuned to observing a persons' features. Only, since I can't witness it, I have to experience it.

As if kids again, I stretched out, carefully bringing my hands down on his face.

My hands contact his skin.

"That's my eye, honey," John says.

We chuckle, I lower my hands until my palms sweep over his cheeks, my palms chafing his now stubble beard and weather-beaten skin. I can recall a time, John was clean-shaven, and his skin, smooth and velvety. His nose appeared to be a little more unblemished with age than in prior years, and his wrinkles are now more prone than they ever were.

John relaxed in my grasp, and like it were new again, I traced the outline of his swollen eyebrows, his closed eyes, his nose and mouth. John returned the mutual respect and reached out to my face, he to show his compassion, only as my hands dropped from his face, he cupped my chin and leaned in closer, placing his chapped, but endearing lips on my mouth. Those lips were once plump forms of life, but the power of his affections never died. As if for a moment, I recall my youth, embracing the moment, for time is all that it is.

I find myself slouching toward my support, placing my head into the crook of his shoulder and sighing. I recall what he had said to me all those years ago, though, nonetheless I desired to hear it again. As with words, I'll only listen to them for so long in my life, before the power of his embrace is snatched when either of us dies. So for now, I lean forward, happy at what we have achieved and brave for what is to come.

I find myself asking, "tell me… tell me what you see?"

To where John says, "birds, I see many gulls. There is a golden mirage on the ocean, and a pretty lady cuddling into my side," he chuckled.

John's head tilted toward mine, I laughed at that one.

"Tell me what you see?" John asks.

"The question is not what I see, but what I can smell, and if I didn't think otherwise that cows were in the area, I'd assume you shit yourself."

I chuckle at my boldness, John laughs at the frankness. We sit here a while longer until I feel the sun beginning to set, and that's when John says, "happy 50th anniversary."

I grin, drawing in the last of the sun rays, breathe in the fresh air and relieve a lifetime of happy memories as I lean against my handsome man.

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, we'd receive a call, requesting bail from our son in Dublin, after he inadvertently mistook a police car for a taxi. So far, life is good, life is comical.

 

The End