Page 96 of Dark Ink

Epilogue

Eithne

It had been weeks of fingertips brushing across warm wood tables. Weeks of hushed conversation over espresso machines and low murmurs and soft indie music. Weeks of blushed cheeks and averted gazes and thighs squeezing beneath the table. Weeks of an elbow offered, a walk home provided, a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek given.

I’d lingered for more under cotton-candy skies, under rain-pattered umbrellas, under fog that gathered in my hair like dew-strung spiderwebs. I’d fumbled with my keys, rooted around in my purse for them, dropped them by accident more times than I could count. I’d cleared my throat, paused in the doorway, glanced back as he walked with stooped shoulders and hands stuffed into his pockets down the sidewalk.

It had been weeks and I’d done everything I could think of to hint at wanting more and I’d gotten nothing. Absolutely nothing.

At first I told myself to be patient, Rachel and Aurnia told me to be patient. He was recovering. We’d agreed to take it slow. It was nice, after all, having my chair pulled out for me, doors held for me, a hand guiding me at the small of my back through coffee shop after coffee shop after coffee shop. But as the weather grew colder, I yearned for warmth. For his warmth. And as my patience thinned like the crisp air, a new fear crept in like the frost on my loft’s attic windows: what if things would never be the same? Couldn’t ever be the same? What if it wasn’t him? But me?

What if, without the drugs, he no longer wanted me?

Cupping my hands over yet another chai latte in yet another quaint Dublin coffee shop, I wondered if maybe Rian had lost his fire for me. I could feel the heat of the flames behind me, crackling, sparking as the logs shifted, but his gaze remained steady, cool, embers burned so low reigniting them might be a fool’s errand. When he walked me home this time, when he smiled at me outside my door, I interrupted him as he suggested, as always, that we meet again next week.

“I’d like to pick the place,” I said, blurting the words out so fast that I couldn’t possibly stop myself; even if it was for the best, which it probably was.

I saw a hint of a wry grin on Rian’s lips. I kicked at my shoes before glancing back up at him.

“Is that alright?” I asked before shaking my head. “I mean, I don’t care if that’s alright with you, that’s what we’re doing. Fuck, that was rude.”

I covered my face with my hands. Rian’s fingers were ice cold when he gripped my wrists to gently pull them away, but they sent bolts of electricity through me all the same. His face was kind as he looked down at me in the lamplight.

“What I mean to say,” I said, smiling weakly, feeling like a silly girl, “is that I know of a good place. That you might like. That I think you might like. If you…I mean, if you want…I mean—”

Rian pressed his lips to my cheek as always, but this time added in a whisper, “It’s a date.”

The week passed and there he was again at my door. Again he offered his elbow. Again I took it with hesitant fingertips. Again we walked in an all-too-comfortable silence that was beginning to frighten me.

“It’s just up here,” I said, nodding toward the end of the city block.

Dusk came early for Dublin those days. Streetlamps switched on one by one as we walked along as if to guide our way. The bustle from the coffee shop at the end of the street could be heard from where we were. The light from the condensation-covered windows spilled out onto the grey sidewalk like yellow paint. Rian’s eyes were fixed on it.

I could still bail out, I thought, biting my lip nervously. I could pretend that was the destination all along. We could just go have another cup of good coffee with good conversation before a goodnight kiss on the cheek.

Rian let out a startled gasp as I suddenly dragged him up a set of three small stairs. This time there was no fumbling with the key. Rian asked what I was doing, but I ignored him and instead dragged him roughly inside behind me. I fell against the door to close it and breathed heavily in the dark.

“Eithne?” Rian asked.

I could just make out his form in front of me. He was searching for me in the dim light. He was reaching out for me. I could just see the tips of his fingers. My chest heaved. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. This was a mistake. This was all a big mistake. It was so warm in the coffee shop. So safe.

“Eithne?” Rian asked again.

I was just about to turn the door handle, to let us out, to run, but Rian’s fingers brushed my chest. I was sure that an EMT couldn’t shock my heart like he did. I inhaled sharply.

“Eithne,” Rian said. It was not a question this time, for he’d found me. “Eithne.”

Rian laid his hand across my chest in the dark and for a second I didn’t breathe. My skin was wet clay and I didn’t want to lose the shape of his long artistic fingers, his scared palm. With my eyes closed, I switched on the lights.

I kept my eyes closed as Rian froze. Kept them closed as his hand slowly fell away from my body. As I heard his footsteps echo up to the high ceilings in the spacious room, as silence fell back in, heavy as a final curtain. I kept my eyes closed till I could stand it no longer.

I winced against the light. Blocked my eyes like I was standing in high noon sun. Rian came into my vision, the outline of his shoulders were blurred like a mirage. I blinked and he grew clearer and clearer. He stood across the room. Turned away from me. Elbow held in one hand. Feet shoulder distance apart. Head tilted just slightly to the side.

I walked toward him, resisting the urge to tiptoe like a small child. I told myself to keep my chin held high as I came to stand next to him. As I reminded myself to breathe. As I took in what he was taken in by: a painting of a flower, a painting of a vagina. Not one, not the other. But both. A beginning and an end.

I couldn’t get myself to glance up at Rian. I was afraid to read his reaction. To see the critique etched in the harsh lines of his face. To see disapproval in his downturned lips. Or worst of all, to see no reaction at all. Fire gone. Embers burned out. The nothingness of a dead hearth. A cold, empty house.

“I, um, I—my work was accepted,” I said, voice sounding small in the big gallery space. “One day I just started painting and I couldn’t stop.”

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