It was annoying me that she ignored my suggestion in the way that a girl would if she hadn’t exactly made up her mind if she wanted to have sex with you and I was running out of ideas. We had been together for well over a year. I didn’t need the stress of small talk to get her into bed. I wanted sex, nothing more. I wanted post-argument sex, heated and slightly brutal. But Jenny was holding out on me so I had no option but to revert to recounting more of my stories in an attempt to amuse her and to bring some fun back into the night. I felt like a bold child, trying to make amends. But Jenny could be tough to crack.

I was becoming increasingly agitated. So I suggested going to bed, again. I was all smiles as I tried to coax her into the bedroom. But she wasn’t having any of it. I couldn’t understand why she had bothered coming home with me in the first place if it was going to be like that. It was late and the mood was lost and she said she was going to hit the road. I was fuming inside as I walked her out on to the road and I left her there by herself to flag down a taxi, I was damned if I was going to wait for one. This was my way of punishing her for not being forthcoming.

I went back into the flat determined to drink more beer. I was annoyed with myself for spending a rake of money and not really having a great night to show for it. I was annoyed with myself for freaking out about Jerome. I sat down and reached underneath the sofa for my wooden box. It was precious to me, bought in a shop that sold hemp and crystal paraphernalia in Temple Bar, and I felt that there was something magical about it. I ran my hand over the lid admiring the intricacies of its aboriginal strokes. The box was for my treasures. Whenever I drank I would go immediately for the photo. I ran my forefinger over it carefully as I had done many times before so as not to smudge the finish. My poor dead older brother Brian, killed in a car accident just weeks shy of his twenty-second birthday. Multiple fingerprints were discernible on it and they were emphasized by the way I held it under the light. Brian was wearing his favourite jacket, his black biker, and I knew that he had his leather bracelets underneath the cuffs that he wore proudly, like a Spaniard. I put the photo down in the precise place that I kept it. And I cried easy drunk tears. My face was wet and I rubbed my cheeks with the backs of my hands.

18. The Run

May 2017