A Man Melting by Craig Cliff Page B

their website; her at the university, processing research grants. Not quite what she had in mind, but it was close enough to Exciting and Important Things to be tolerable.
    It was her birthday party and she had invited many of her new colleagues, setting the tone. I was happy to play the role of Mr Alice and talk to university types about their pet topics. Until Delancey arrived.
    I had been talking to a woman named Visi. She was trying to convince me that I shouldn’t mind if the government monitored my phone calls or internet usage, ‘because, ultimately, privacy interrupts the flow of cause and effect and lets people believe they can act without consequence’. I must have been paying enough attention to remember this, but as soon as Delancey entered, Visi’s rant was turned down in the mix to Barely There.
    Of course, Alice was still the most beautiful person in the room. Walking by her side, I see the uncontrollable smiles that cross the faces of men — young and old — when she walks past. She is tall. Taller than me, but not by much. A natural blonde, a natural walker, a natural everything when it comes to looks. She modelled off and on through university, but only for play money. It was never a career she wanted to pursue. And even now that we had both bellyflopped into a new town — unspectacular jobs,unspectacular middle age — she could still wow a room.
    But to men, a woman’s good looks are like smells: eventually you don’t notice they’re there.
    Delancey’s appearance was a wave of exotic smells from a Vietnamese restaurant.
    In what was partially explained to me as an office joke, one of Alice’s workmates had brought all the ingredients for mulled wine — cinnamon sticks, cloves and raisins ‘to make it Swedish’ — even though it was March and, while far from summery, it had not been particularly cold of late.
    While Alice started to heat the wine in our largest saucepan, surrounded by four or five of her female colleagues, I was left in the living room with Eamon, the lone male in her office; two husbands; Mish, Alice’s friend from primary school who’d encouraged her to move here; and, of course, Mish’s young friend, Delancey.
    The husbands and I were at a distinct advantage over the single Eamon and we knew it, slowly swarming around Mish and Delancey and engaging them in conversation. As we discussed the great location of the apartment, I glanced over my shoulder at poor Eamon, who was sitting on the couch, rubbing his thighs and staring at his reflection in the blank television.
    During a pause in the conversation, one of the husbands turned to Delancey and said, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ian.’
    ‘Delancey,’ she said, shaking his hand. Touching Ian.
    ‘Yes, I heard Alice say that when you arrived. What a splendid name. Is it Irish?’
    ‘No, I think it’s French,’ she replied. ‘My parents named me after a street in their home town.’
    ‘How marvellous!’
    I let him talk his tweed-and-pipe talk. My time would come.
    Delancey’s hair was thick and never-been-dyed brown. She had pulled the fringe and sides back into a high ponytail, but let the back splay out like a scallop shell over her shoulders and back. I once had a landlord with a similar haircut. It made him look like a barbarian. But with her green eyes, Delancey looked like a Celtic goddess — regardless of the origin of her name.
    ‘Mulled wine, everybody,’ cried one of Alice’s colleagues. Our crowd in the living room all gave Might as well gestures and moved wordlessly to the kitchen.
    I managed to make my way up to Alice as she ladled the wine into coffee mugs, and gave her a peck on the cheek. She passed me a mug, but I passed it on to the person behind me. She continued to pass me mugs and I passed them on until there was just Delancey waiting and only one mug left in our house.
    ‘Oh, I’m fine to go without,’ said Delancey.
    ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘You did all the work.’
    ‘I