Bullfighting Read Free

waits, and crosses the station entrance. It’s not as fancy as those new forecourts going up everywhere. Martina. Good-looking girl. She was young. But so was he.
    That was all.
    He doesn’t know what happened. Or what he’d say, how he’d bring it up, after this long.
    â€”What went wrong?
    He could never say that.
    â€”What happened?
    She’d look at him. He’d have to explain. Where would he start? He hadn’t a clue. And the question would announce it – the end. They’d have to admit it. And one of them would have to go.
    Him.
    But he’s alone already. He knows the last time he spoke to someone. This morning. Getting the paper. The woman behind the counter.
    â€”Nice day again.
    â€”Yeah.
    That was it. A nice woman. Attractive. His age. A bit younger. He’s coming up to the Darndale roundabout. He never looked at women his age. Until recently. They were always too old. Not really women; ex-women. Now, though, he looks. But he doesn’t. Not really. He doesn’t know what he’d do if a woman spoke to him.
    â€”Nice day again.
    â€”Yeah.
    What else could he say? He isn’t interested. He’s used to himself. He’s fine. He’s come to the roundabout. He’ll go on. He isn’t tired. He crosses. Darndale to the left. Rough spot. He’s never been in there. He runs the last bit, trots – to the other side. He’s fine.
    It’s dark, very quickly. Like four hours gone, in a second. And cold, and it’s raining. He goes on. He closes his jacket. It’s bucketing. There’s an inch of sudden water. He can’t see far. The traffic noise has changed; it’s softer, menacing.
    Who’s to blame? No one. It just happened. It’s too late now. He can’t pull them back, his wife, the kids. They have their own lives. She does; they do. Maybe grandkids will do something. If there are any. He doesn’t know. He knows nothing. He feels nothing. He doesn’t even feel sorry for himself. He doesn’t think he does.
    He’s fine. He copes.
    But this is stupid. It’s lashing, no sign of sunlight. He’s cold. His feet are wringing. He turns back. He can feel the water down his back. It annoys him, giving up, but he’s – not sure – reassured, or something. He can change his mind. He’s prepared to.
    He makes it to the bus shelter. Across the Malahide Road. A break in the traffic. He goes through the water. He’s fine. In under the shelter. A gang of young guys. Fuckin’ this, fuckin’ that. Rough kids. Too skinny, too fat. Not really kids. One of them pushes him. Bangs against him. An accident. No apology. They laugh. They shove each other, out from the shelter.
    He’ll go. But one of them steps out, shouts. A taxi stops. They pile in. One slips. They laugh. They’re gone.
    There’s one kid left there. A girl. Eight, nine – he’s not sure. White tracksuit. Mousy hair, beads in it. She’s chewing gum. His own kids were scared of gum, when they were little. His fault – he was always afraid of them choking. She’s chewing away. He can hear her.
    The rain is dying.
    She speaks.
    â€”I’m waitin’ on me mammy.
    He’s surprised. He says nothing, at first.
    â€”Where is she?
    â€”At her work, she says.—Comin’ home.
    â€”On the bus?
    â€”Yeah.
    â€”That’s nice.
    â€”Yeah.
    He puts his hand out.
    â€”The rain’s stopping.
    â€”It was badly needed, she says.
    He smiles.
    â€”You’re dead right, he says.
    The ground is already steaming. He shakes water from his jacket.
    â€”I’ll go on, he says.—Will you be alright there by yourself?
    â€”Ah yeah, she says.—I’m grand.
    â€”Good, he says.—Well. Seeyeh.
    â€”Seeyeh.
    The rain is gone. It’s bright again.
    He walks.
    Nice kid. He smiles.
    Hanahoe walks home.

The Photograph
    G etting older wasn’t too bad. The