Page 21 of 56 Days
“Yeah, well...” Again the hand on the small of her back, gently directing her to a booth just inside the door, protected from the rest of the bar by astained-glasspartition. “I’ve chosen tonight’s location purely based on its potential infection rate.”
“Lovely.” She slides into the booth. “But how about we not talk about that? I’m in the mood to stick my head in the sand for an hour.”
“Fair enough. What can I get you?”
“A glass of white wine, please.”
“Any particular kind?”
“So long as it’s cold and not chardonnay...”
“God, you’resodemanding.”
He winks at her before turning away.
She angles her body toward the window so half a minute later she hears rather than sees the barman approach Oliver at the bar. He must have been in the back. After their order is placed, it becomes apparent that hewas, and why: he explains that they’re rearranging the interior so they are in line with the government’s newsocial-distancingguidelines ahead of St. Patrick’s Day.
Ciara can’t imagine how a bunch of drunk people on the country’s drunkest day of the year will figure out how to stay two meters apart, in apub, but the barman seems confident. She supposes he has to be.
“Here you go.”
Oliver carefully places her glass of white wine and his pint of something on the table and then slides into the booth until he’s sitting next to her, but still a polite foot away.
“They’re rearranging the tables,” he says, lifting his chin to indicate the back of the bar.
“I heard.”
“Some of the booths are already taped off.”
“Taped off with what?”
“Hazard tape,” he says. “Black and yellow stripes.”
“That’s... slightly terrifying.”
“I would say, ‘And surreal,’ but I think I’ve already maxed out my allowance of that word for the week. See also:unprecedented. Anyway...” He puts a hand on her forearm, lightly squeezes it. “Let’s talk about something else. Or attempt to. Why did you move to Dublin?”
She has told him this already, she thinks.
She says, “Because of my job.”
“But you knew the job was here before you applied for it. So why did you apply?”
“Oh, you know.” She looks into her wine glass, picks it up, takes a sip. “The usual. I fancied a change. A new adventure. Fresh start.”
“Was going on a date with a rando you met in the supermarket part of that plan?”
Date.
“It might help achieve its objectives,” she says without looking at him, feeling her cheeks warm under his gaze. “We’ll see.”
The long silence that follows this is so excruciating for her that she fears she will spontaneously combust.
“I know what you mean,” he says then. “That’s why I’m here. Why I left London.”
When she turns to him she sees that his gaze is fixed now on something that isn’t there, some memory in the middle distance, and although she wants to ask him what he’s thinking about, wants to know more about whatever it was that went on in London, she has a very real sense that now isn’t the time, that it’s too soon.
“Cheers,” he says, picking up his glass. “To fresh starts.”
