“Oh my God,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

And then he fled. He ran—truly ran—all the way back to Grafton Street, taking the most convoluted route he could think of, so he could be sure to lose her. A grown man, acclaimed novelist, sprinting through the streets of Dublin like a purse snatcher. When he reached the parking lot, he had to stop and catch his breath, doubled over, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, as if to erase the memory of the naked girl. He felt as though he might faint. Fingers trembling, he tried to coax a dirty twenty-euro note into the slot of the pay kiosk, but the bill kept reversing back out at him like a mocking green tongue. Once in his car, he raced down the ramps of the lot, tires squealing, and sped home to Dalkey.

Maeve was in the kitchen making tea when he walked in. He stood in the doorway for a moment to take her in. Her long black hair was threaded through with silver strands; the lines of her body were coltish, athletic. Her little paunch seemed a joyful imperfection, a reminder of three girls whom he adored. The fact of his wife made him euphoric, nearly tearful with relief, as though he had woken from a nightmare to the smell of toast. Hearing him, Maeve turned and checked him warily, as if to gauge his mood, to predict the scene ahead. He wanted to rush straight over to her and take her in his arms; but, afraid that the scent of the girl was on him, he walked over to the couch by the window and smiled at her. He felt so grateful.

“How was the meeting?” she asked.

“What—oh shit!” He had completely forgotten the lunch with the film producer. That was why he had driven to the center of town! “I forgot all about it.”

“But you drove there to—”

“I—I was thinking,” he said. “I just—I was thinking, and I lost all sense of where I was supposed to be.”

Maeve shook her head and smiled, the thin skin around her eyes crinkling into a fan of wrinkles. “Thinking about what?” she asked.

“I might have a book in me,” he said, realizing it was true. “A character. She came to me today, in town.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said.

RECEIPTS

My mother always said, “There are no atheists on turbulent flights.”