He had left a note to meet him in Grogan’s. She understood
the significance: 'Grogan’s is where I grew up. It’s the closest thing I've had
to a real home, at least since my mother died.'
So this is it, I get to meet the family. I must make a good
impression. What would complement my Just-had-good-sex-but-I’m-still-horny
smile? Perhaps something in red, with black pants – no, a short black skirt.
She wanted to leave an impression on his soul, as well as his body.
For a while, she would become a fixture on his arm, and in
time, the world would know her for her own work. After that, Fate would decide
if she stayed or went, but first, she had to look the part.
She paraded back and forth in front of the long mirror that
leaned against the wall. It offered that nice perspective, sloping away. She
could turn and see most of her back, right down to her long slender calves. Was
it really fair to Sinead? She said it was okay, but her reflection wasn't
listening. She was posing in her black underwear. And what was it you were
saying about clichés? We could try the red set.
It was perfection. Her skin looked like alabaster, her lips
like wine and her hair like storm-clouds. She shimmed into her short skirt and,
corseted in her red shirt, checked herself one more time. Dark and dangerous,
like a child of the night, she offered her passing reflection as she left.
Be careful, you don't know what else wanders in these
nights, in this ancient city, in this strange land, her likeness tried to warn
her but she had closed the door and was walking the moonlit street. Her heels
clattered quickly past the shaded bench where a shadow flitted and was gone.
By the time she arrived in Grogan’s, he was standing by the
bar. Her shirt was tight and her skirt was, perhaps, a bit short, but what the
hell. She opened her leather jacket slowly. Her top three buttons were undone.
She wanted to push her breasts forward, but she was losing her nerve. Most of the
men in the bar had turned. They almost formed a circle around her but kept
their distance and opened like a path before her.
She grew a little shy as they eddied back to their smoking
and swearing as she passed. She smiled with as much assurance as she could
muster and reached forward and kissed his lips as he ordered drinks and steered
them to a small table in the corner. As Janice sat, she was careful to let her
skirt ride up a little. His eyes followed her hips and she felt warm in his
gaze. She reached out across the table; she wanted to be close to him again.
He leaned back and looked at her for a moment with that
glazed look men get, but he was calm. “I was thinkin’ about you all day, an’ I
was thinkin’ that maybe I'd write a poem about you or somethin’.”
The ‘something’ sounded appealing but, after her lust was
sated, love poems would make the whole thing perfect. She would paint him of
course; it would be a part of her Dublin period, a blue period when the seeds
were sown. He'd be world renowned by then, too. It was all so good that she
almost shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“No, of course not,” but she did lean forward and push her
breasts together.
“Maybe,” he smiled at
her adjustment, “we could collaborate, ya know? I could talk with some people I
know, and we could do one of those fancy books with paintin's and poems
together. I think that would be fuckin' brilliant, don't you? I mean it
wouldn't be hard now that everybody is talkin' about my poems already.”
That raised a flutter inside of her. They could share lives
for a while; not a happy-ever-after thing, they were far too bohemian for that.
But they could spend some time together. He could even meet her in the coffee
shop for everyone to see. She almost frowned when she thought about her, but as
she had said, Sinead was okay with this. She knew Janice was an artist, someone
who couldn't be expected to paint between the lines.
In time, they would part and she'd go back to Canada, but
not to Robert, he would be married by then, and she'd have a signed copy of
‘Poems for a Woman’ or some such title. Perhaps, she'd leave it on her bedside
table, when Leonard Cohen spent the night.
New Love, her old-self reminded her, is such a heady mix,
potent and likely to cause missteps.
I don’t care. I feel alive and free. I feel like I've never
felt before.
Christ! Get a grip; after all, he's not the first!
But this will be delicious, he's a poet and I'm a painter.
It’s all so terribly un-Toronto of me.
It is amazing how a good fuck can change your mind, she
reminded herself in a tone that might have been borrowed from Sinead.
He was still talking about himself, and as long as she
looked into his eyes and nodded during the brief pauses, he'd continue. He was
very happy with himself; he might be invited to read his work as part of some
Irish cultural exchange. He was Dublin’s street poet, and he was in demand
right now. He ordered her another Scotch, and she took another of his cigars.
Both tasted foul in her mouth, but she wanted to look the part, the mysterious
woman with the handsome poet.
She must have been doing it right because every man who
wrestled his way past looked her up and down. Janice loved the feeling and
tingled between her crossed legs as the whiskey surged, dispelling caution and
daring her, with every sip, to take yet another step out and away from
everything she had been.
And, when he lit her cigar, he held the match before her
face, looking into her eyes. As he drew his hand away, he let the back of his
fingers trace along her cheek. The burning match was far too close, but it
added to her excitement. He'd moved to the seat beside her and discreetly took
her hand in his. He was being demonstrative, something Janice knew was unusual
for him.
“So are you gonna be the one to catch the great Greeley?”
someone called from the bar where a line of men sat in a row, turning every
once in a while to look her over.
“She's far too good for the likes of him.”
“Maybe she's one of those people that do studies on
endangered species.”
“Would ya ever go and fuck yourselves,” Aidan softly dropped
her hand and reached for his pint.
“Ah! C’mon now, Aidan. Aren’t ya goin’ to introduce us to
the young lady?”
“Janice, these are the lads. Lads, this is Janice.”
A few of them flocked around the table to introduce
themselves, to get closer to her, and Janice smiled as she looked each one in
the eye as they shook hands. For all their bravado, they were really very shy.
“So you're from Canada, then,” one of them remarked as if
that explained something that had mystified them all. “And what are you doing
in Ireland?”
“In Trinity, Jazus, Greeley, this one's a cut above.”
“Would ya ever go and fuck-off now and give us some peace
and privacy.”
“C’mon on now, lads,” Paddy called from behind the bar,
“leave the young love birds alone.”
Aidan squirmed. He didn't want this attention.
“Are those your friends?”
“Some of them.”
“They seem nice.”
“Trust me, they’re not!”
By the end of the evening, Janice had difficulty keeping her
poise as they walked to her place. She was carefree and exhilarated by the
promise of intimacy, something that could never be broken by wind nor rain. She
tried to brush against him as often as she could, to feel his body against
hers, to touch, as if by accident, some part of him, but she was in danger of
falling over. Her jacket was open and her shirt undone to the fourth button. My
true self emerges, she laughed to herself. He laughed, too, and she wondered if
her mind was open to him. She really didn’t care. She was becoming something
she had read about and never tried before.
“Aidan, you're not brooding. In fact, you almost seem happy.
Are you sure you're a poet?”
“Ya know that I think you're havin' an effect on me.”
“Oh, Aidan, are you suggesting you've found everlasting love
with me?”
“Nay, I just feel that you and I could stay in the here and
now for a while and never have to worry about all the other shite.”
“But what about when we get old and wrinkled?”
“Then we'll just have to have a few extra drinks so we don't
notice so much.”
“Aidan, you've given this a lot of thought.”
“Like I said, Janice, I think you're havin' an effect on me.
So, wanna do it again?”
“Do what?”
“You know, doin' it.”
“Not until you say it.”
“Janice, darlin', would you like to make love with me?”
“Nay, I just want to have sex.”
