My Buried Life by Doreen Finn Page A

do this. I like to think it’s possible, sitting here in a bar, drowning in an atmosphere of alcohol, but it isn’t, not really. Overwhelmed. I am overwhelmed. I want to go home, find a bottle of something strong and negate all the thoughts that keep tumbling into my head. The tiredness weighs me down and makes me feel slow. Pretence exhausts me, and it’s too hard to keep up with it. My coat is wedged between Adam and me. I retrieve it.
    ‘Listen, I should go.’
    The disappointment on his face is almost flattering. ‘Really?’
    ‘Sorry, I’m just wrecked. I think I’m getting a cold or something.’
    Adam stands too quickly, and the table wobbles, slopping his wheat beer. ‘Look, it’s my fault. We should’ve gone to the cinema.’
    I shake my head. How kind he is. A good man. ‘It’s not your fault. I just need to go home.’
    He pulls his jacket on. An older couple ask us if our seats are free. They put their drinks down on the table, a pint of Guinness and something mixed with orange. My water remains there, barely touched, the green label curling where I pulled at it.
    We share a taxi. It’s early still, and the queues for cabs have yet to begin. Town is packed. Lines have formed outside clubs, and hordes of drunken people lurch along the streets, shouting across the road at each other, stepping out in front of cars. The taxi driver swears, blares the horn and complains about girls puking in the back of his car. It’s no life, he says, driving a cab on a Saturday night in Dublin. You’d want to be mad to do it. We murmur assent. The driver shakes his head. Mad, he repeats. I must be mad to do this.
    Adam lives in Sandymount, but we’re going by my place first. He leans back, pushes his glasses up on his head. What would it be to kiss him, to smoothe the planes of his face with the palms of my hands? His hair curls slightly, dark auburn and thick. A day’s growth stipples his jaw.
    The traffic is heavy leaving town. By the time we reach the Triangle, we are stuck again.
    Away from the city centre, and the flow of alcohol, it’s easier to be calm. I don’t want Adam to see me withdrawn, sullen. There’s still time to salvage the evening. I lean forward, tap the driver on the shoulder.
    ‘Let us out here, will you?’
    Adam pays; he will not accept my share of the fare.
    ‘Which one’s yours?’ he asks, looking around at the terrace of houses where we stand.
    ‘I’m farther up the road. I just thought it’d be nice to walk for a bit.’
    ‘It’s very nice to walk for a bit,’ Adam says. His breath swirls on the cold air. ‘So I’m not in the bad books then?’
    ‘Don’t be silly.’
    Opposite, diners sit on patios under gas heaters. The doors of a pub swing open, allowing a roar of sound to gush out before being sealed off again. This is better; this is easier. No drunken hordes of tourists and hen parties, no one vomiting on the streets. It’s a neighbourhood, in the way the East Village is.
    ‘I’m getting old,’ I remark.
    Adam reaches out, twists a lock of my hair around his index finger. ‘You’re looking good on it.’
    ‘I mean it. This is much more my style.’ I gesture at the scene across the road. ‘I don’t like town when it’s packed. Not sure I ever have.’
    ‘I’m with you. The only time I go in is if I’m going to a play, or to meet someone.’
    ‘Is this what they call middle age then?’
    He drapes his arm on my shoulders. ‘I’m afraid it is. Next up, pipe and slippers.’
    ‘And bridge.’
    ‘Oh, that’s very adventurous.’
    ‘And Velcro. On everything. Oh, and leaving notes to remind yourself to do things and then forgetting where you put them.’
    His laugh is loud, and I feel suddenly proud of myself. It’s been an age since I made anyone laugh.
    ‘You’re a funny chick, Doctor Perry.’
    The weight of his arm is not a burden. His hand grazes my upper arm. Should I take it? I feel as though I should, but what does it say if I do? In the end