Ethereal

By Deputy Editor in Chief Tiernán B. Ó Ruairc

You’re stood there in the doorway with your arms folded. Despite being sheltered from the little bit of rain spitting from the sky the wind still catches you, whipping at the loose fabric of your jumper. Stood there in one of two identical brown corduroy trousers you blend in with the browning brickwork behind you. Framed by the doorframe the hallway light distorts through the old glass in the transom window creating what can only be described as a halo above your head. The rain is soft but persistent, leaving me soaked from the walk here dripping down my temple and meandering down my cheek. There's a knot building in my chest, disappointment in myself for having woken you up at this hour, the weight of it all keeps me stood there staring at you wide eyed as if you were a truck and I, a badger caught in your main beam. Nothing but shame, in my soul as you beckon me into your home. 

Each step is heavy and feels tiresome, the journey up the three steps towards you feels like I’m approaching the throne of a queen who may swiftly end my life with one order. We embrace each other, I allow myself to fall into you, my weight forcing you to stumble back two steps.  You always smell of Dior J’adore even at half one in the morning, it was only to cover the smell of fags, which was one of your signature things like making biscotti or dancing in the kitchen. We stumble into the front room, avoiding the stairs to the bedrooms upstairs. “You’d make too much noise falling up the bleedin’ stairs” you sneer as you stroke my head, which gently pulls and and drags the stubble on my head which for whatever reason I’d shaved.

 Sitting there we sunk into the ancient couch, which didn’t reek of smoke despite the years of smoking that occurred in this room with its dulled wallpaper which presumably once seemed fresh and probably expensive. But tonight, right now I feel like the wallpaper as it stands today. Clinging to the wall but dampened and dull, and peeling at the edges. You comically throw your hand down on the couch, palm up gesturing to me to take it, rolling your head as comically as you had thrown your hand down. Now hand in hand. Just the two of us, alone in this familiar place. “Why were you still up?” you give a faint squeeze to my hand but fail to answer the question. You change the channel to MTV80’s and we fall asleep, I want to say it was something nice like 'Every Breath You Take’ but the reality is it was probably something obscure that MTV only plays late at night. 

We’re awoken by the sound of the front door closing shut, and the beep of a car horn from outside. The telly’s still playing from the corner, the one o’clock weather report is drawing to a close with more rain still to come in the afternoon. Theres a fresh smell of fags mixed with the grease of a fry-up wafting through the house down the hallway, up the stairs and into the front room. Lying there in the deflated bosom of this rickety couch, the shame from last night still tugs at my chest, yet the warmth and calmness of your hand in my own brings some comfort. Nothing’s said as the weather wraps up and the ads start to roll. For a moment it feels as if we're floating and that we are perfectly in sync. Like our hands clasped together have given us the ability to make our hearts beat as one. 

My thumb brushes the top of your hand, soft and tender, any malaise left in me has now dissipated. You tuck your bottom lip and grin, you roll into me with your head on my shoulder and we mosey into each other. My head atop yours, you pull your feet up onto the couch and cover yourself in a blanket using your one free hand holding the end closest to me open offering the same heat and protection for me too. We sit lazily watching RTÉ daytime television though its more background noise than anything as our lips travel towards one anothers.