I made it to the toilet and vomited. It was mainly straight beer but in the yellowy froth slices of pepperoni and lumps of green pepper were clearly distinguishable. I took my head out of the toilet and sat on the floor of the cubicle. It was astonishing how quickly I felt the better for it.

But when I went back to the dance area I didn’t feel great again and decided that I had to leave. Jenny pretended not to hear me when I told her it was time to go. I grabbed her elbow. She said that it was her birthday and that I needed to relax and that she intended to stay out late, with her friends. As late as she wanted.

You do that, I said.

I didn’t mean to come across as being abrupt, and I apologized, and that seemed to be that.

She repeated what we both knew by heart by then, that it was her birthday. She said that she would come over to my flat after the club. I felt as though I had no alternative but to agree and I truly wanted her to have a good time, it was her birthday after all.

I left then and I headed on into the dark of the night. The boardwalk along the Liffey was at conceptual phase back then. As I walked I imagined how on earth it might work in a city full of heroin addicts and drunks. Dublin City Council was talking about our city and Paris in the same sentence, about flower boxes and a riverside café culture. The whole thing was preposterous. It would never happen. I was headed to Rick’s for a burger. I figured that it might actually settle my stomach.

The place was jointed but I decided to wait anyway. I was very annoyed with Jenny for not leaving with me. For making me look like an idiot, all needy. I wasn’t sure if I particularly liked any of her friends but it struck me in the strip-light that that wasn’t the point. It was as much to do with pride as anything else.

14. The Picnic

April 2017

Even though the real hurt of the winter is over, I promise myself not to become complacent. I am well aware of how surprisingly cool spring can be. The garden is still in shreds; little bits of plastic that have been blown about during the winter storms continue to decorate the sparse bushes.

Jenny wears her old jeans that are ripped at the knee and splashed with oils and paint. She is using pencils and charcoal and she is sketching out a figure. She frowns as she works. I stand behind her and I touch her shoulder lightly. There is a photo of a man wearing a white dress beside her canvas.

I ask her who he is.