I grab a beer from the fridge and I turn on the TV. I put on a CD and I play with my phone. I put my phone down and pick up a book about wine-making. I read a passage with a semblance of hope and newfound possibility. My mood dampens somewhat when I see the words demijohn and siphoning. Perhaps the better option is to stock up at O’Brien’s. Plus, I tell myself that any efforts on my behalf will probably be undrinkable. I am aware of very industrious people who are quite capable of making wine out of such things as parsnips and blackberries. I’m just not sure if it is for me.

I find myself at Jenny’s desk and I look fondly at some of the pieces that she has ready for the show in Gallery One. There’s the series of pencil drawings of the sea at rest and the sea at turbulence. There’s the wood carving of the lobster pot. There’s the drawing of the Brother that she has redone since I cut the original. There’s the collage that she has called Shards. It’s a rather interesting piece that takes up a significant portion of her desk. The base is essentially plastic cut from old fish boxes that she has found on the beach over the last year. To me it looks like a storyboard. At a first glance there is certain innocence to it, as though on some level a child has been involved in the process of choosing some of the items that are adhered to the rough blue plastic, sea glass and feathers. Sailors’ lace – the spaghetti of the sea – has been dried out and it acts as a frame. As a contrast to all the beach innocence Jenny has stuck a syringe into the centre of the piece.

I check the time. I have been sitting here at Jenny’s desk for an hour. My beer is finished and the empty bottle is testament to that. I am lost. Do I think this is any good? I ask myself, could Maeve do this?

What could they be talking about? Must be hard being a widower, Jerome. I think about this for a moment and I realize that I’m experiencing schadenfreude and that I’m glad that he’s in pain, that he has lost something. I’m losing many things now as I sit here and dwell. I am losing her laughter, her eyes flitting, the way her clavicle is so fine, slender, the way she leans her head to one side when she is listening to something that she finds deeply interesting. I can’t remember the last time she has looked at me with that same inclination of her head. Jerome the fuck. I recount my stories of the sea and of the surf these days mainly to Maeve.