He replaced his book on the shelf and walked out onto the street again. So many bodies—why weren’t they at work? Who were these people? Tourists, students, suits on lunch breaks, mothers killing time till the next school run. Stories in each of them, infuriatingly locked away from him. He peered into their faces for clues. This was what he needed, he thought: to get out more, be among strangers. He craved new encounters. He had been holed up with his little family for so long, he’d run out of things to say. He couldn’t write about his marriage, it would be a violation. His conjugal happiness had tied his writer’s hands. He would come into town more, he would write in cafés. Volunteer in a homeless shelter. He needed a pee. The old pub on the corner was as glossy black as liquid tar, with gilt lettering. He hadn’t been there in years. Maybe he would stop for a pint. It was time to break some patterns.

The place was empty, save for one young woman sitting at the bar. Late twenties perhaps, a little pudgy, with black-rimmed eyes and a delicate nose, she reminded Ciaran of a lemur. The many silver bracelets on her wrists made a tinkling sound as she raised the glass to her lips, sampling the Guinness and putting it down again after a swallow. She was probably a tourist, Ciaran mused as he walked toward the gents. Dublin girls came out at night. Maybe she was Eastern European. As he walked back into the bar, he observed her. She had fair skin that glowed against the dark walls of the bar. Her lank hair was brown, cut in a bob, with a hard-edged short fringe. There was something sleek and mysterious about her, even though she was plain. On the street you wouldn’t look at her twice, most likely. But here in this dim bar at one o’clock in the afternoon, drinking by herself, she seemed damned interesting. He sat down at the bar, ordered a ham sandwich and a pint, snatched a handful of peanuts from a dish at the bar, then slid the dish over to the young woman.

“I just read you can get hepatitis from that,” she said in a flat voice. American. Ciaran winced. He found American English as alluring as a cold fried egg.

“From what?” Ciaran asked, already walking down the street in his mind.

“Communal nuts,” she said. He looked at her to check if she knew that was funny. She did.

“Where in the States are you from?” he asked.