Barefoot Over Stones by Liz Lyons

It felt as if she was making space for something to happen but it wasn’t until Dan clasped her hand in his as she set his mug of black coffee in front of him that she allowed herself to believe that this gorgeous, sophisticated man could be interested in her. His eyes were so intense that she felt her face fire up in a maddening blush when he spoke to her.
    ‘Will you come out with me, Alison? To the pictures or to the pub or for a pizza, whichever one you fancy . . .’ He punctuated the ensuing pause with a heartfelt, ‘Please?’
    She was finding it difficult to get the words out because all she could concentrate on was the fact that her hand was touching his and his eyes were fixed on her face waiting intently for her answer. Eventually her vocal cords managed to discharge their function.
    ‘Yes, I’d love that. A drink would be nice.’ What was she saying? She didn’t even drink, but a film would be useless. She wanted to be able to look at him, listen to him, and a darkened cinema was not the place. Oh well, she would drink water all night if it meant finally spending time with Dan.
    A customer at the other end of the counter slammed his mug on the countertop in a sullen unspoken demand for a refill. Alison darted to him with the coffee jug, relieved to have negotiated accepting the date without making a total idiot of herself by stumbling on her words or burning his hands with the scalding coffee or tripping over herself while trying to coolly move away.
    With that Rose dropped her cleaning cloth and with it her long-drawn-out pretence of table polishing. She let out a dramatic sigh and approached Dan where he was seated at the counter with a massive smile on his face. ‘Well, I do hope your future patients won’t be as long waiting for a fecking blood transfusion or an amputation, Dan Abernethy, as I have been waiting for that little invitation of yours. It would be less painful to watch a snail crossing the street in heavy traffic. I’m going out for a cigarette, boy. My nerves are well and truly shot.’
    Dan laughed. He was mad for Rose and very grateful to her that she had made herself scarce so he could talk to Alison alone.
    Conlon’s pub in Camden Street wasn’t a popular student haunt and so was quieter on a Thursday night than most of the other pubs on the street. That was one of the reasons Dan had chosen it for his date with Alison. He wanted to be able to chat with her without any of the lads from his classbutting in with their smart comments. It was a tradition to rag any couple on a date and Dan knew how merciless it all could be because he had been part of the good-natured taunting gang on several occasions. Alison was different to any of the girls he had been out with before. She was a bit mysterious and reserved and he wanted time to work her out for himself before anyone else had his or her say about her. He knew from Rose that she was from Cork, some smallish country town, though Rose couldn’t remember the name of it. He knew like himself that she was an only child and that she was in first year Arts in Trinity. At twenty-four he was a good bit older but Alison – and he presumed their enthusiastic matchmaker Rose had filled her in about himself – didn’t seem to mind. In fact she seemed delighted he had asked her out, if somewhat shell-shocked.
    He had offered to pick her up at her flat in Ranelagh but she had insisted that she would meet him at Conlon’s. The bus from Ranelagh stopped at the top of the street before it swung around on to Harcourt Street so at most it was only a few minutes’ stroll. Dan arrived early, driven out from his flat off Leeson Street partly by nerves but mostly by his flatmate Anthony’s liberal use of pound-shop aftershave, which he considered essential for a night on the pull. ‘Captivate’ was the latest brand adorning the toilet cistern in a frighteningly industrial-size can. Sparingly, Dan had told him, was the best way to impress a girl but