At the Irish
134 page hardback

29 x 21 x 3 cm

Edition of 1

Tastes like chicken, but different. She was insistent that wherever they went, it had to be Halal. A lot of places, Haram. Sergeant Louis again on his doorstep, demanding another visit to the bank. A car journey that shouldn’t take a car this long to get anywhere. We might as well get out and walk. It’ll be quicker that way.

Louis’ always been good with money. The bishop had taught him accounting from an early age, and once told him convincingly that the greatest beauty on a woman was the back, everything else pornography. He had agreed, but more so with the back of the neck, her hair swept to one side, falling loosely over her ear. He could study this for hours, trying to understand how it could have such a profound effect on him. It’s just hair, he thought.

All he could do, at this point, was sink lower into his chair and feel his jaw drop with it. Dear God, life could really be perfect at this very moment. He studied her, couldn’t take his eyes away, and took another sip of his drink, eyes not once, moving from the silhouette in front of him. Now she was swaying, laughing, embarrassed. Why are you embarrassed? They talked every day on the phone, sometimes for as long as three hours but the memory of her took over.

He has work. He has money. Everything ordered and functional. Life should be that way. He’s thinking about one woman while history, politics, work and everything else carries on around him. For example: Murder, and far right politics. A politician handing out free beer to joyful supporters. The sun returns to this little island, but a pounding headache from god knows what. Maybe it’s the worker’s routine. Dolly Parton sings 9-5 as we wrap up our 6th shift of the week on a 12-hour clock in clock out basis. 9-5 isn’t enough these days. But the builders breakfast is served on queue and the rest of the day is ahead of us.

The memory of her. Her eyes were green; I remember that much. Yes, emerald green, as I had to remind her how extremely rare of a natural eye colour this was, and she’d better keep hold of them cause someone might want to steal them. I’d read somewhere that only 0.1% of the entire earth’s population had such eyes. Back to not so sunny Spain. The smell of rhubarb and he’d taken note of her hand cream. His posture was different on this occasion, holding the door open, so she could go first. The waiter was charming, and after a successful seven courses, three weeks later, he’d fallen madly in love with her. But ten minutes later, she returned, carrying a small button-up sweater in a bag. She wanted to return it. When he got home, he opened the bag and took the sweater out, pressing it against his face, a light smell of rhubarb. He was determined she would call first, but she never did. On the other hand, he could call at any time, but a resistance within prevented him from ever picking up the phone. A month passed.

“The food here is amazing. It really is. Everyone loves a fluffy bun.” Mm. I was surprised how many English speaking punters inhibited this small restaurant in Tarragona. We ate, and settled the bill, throwing a few coins on the table. Walking out of the restaurant into the street, he couldn’t stop thinking of that tofu substance they’d eaten on that first date, and the sheer resemblance to chicken. How could something replicate the real thing so seamlessly?