Malachy - Flash Fiction - by Roisín Browne

 

Malachy

Flash Fiction

by Roisín Browne

 

He took slow, deliberate steps in the direction of the bus stop, feeling he did not have the right to make noise on the cracked pavement with his polished shoes; hardly had the right to breathe at this point. His hand gave a quick tug on his belt buckle to check. Yes, he had belted up with some speed, not wanting to remain there a second longer, once everything had been completed.

 

It had stopped raining but everything was wet. The late-night buses glistened from the evening downpour and the street lights glowed an Arabian orange.

 

A couple was coming towards him, laughing. The girl had a head of thick copper hair while her male companion, bald and bearded, pushed a mountain bike between them. His animated face, told some story, about somebody, Malachy would never know. As the storyteller kept talking, she laughed louder and stretched out to grab his tattooed hand, as if to stop herself from being propelled forward.

 

As Malachy passed them, the storyteller glanced over and caught Malachy’s eye mid-flight. Malachy looked away. He felt his neck getting hot, hands fidgety, so he pushed them deeper into his coat pockets and dropped his head further into his chest. The grey lambswool scarf irritating his chin. Could this passer-by know? Could he sense it?

 

What if Lucy sensed it?

 

A poetry reading, he had said. The poetry of the Beats, in a small pub off Talbot Street. He would go straight after work and be home on the last bus, promise.

 

She had hardly taken note of him, just nodded as she put the lead on Juno and shouted back up the stairs to Ben to hurry up. He wasn’t being fair. She did tell him to enjoy himself as he shut the door behind him. Those words made him feel nauseous now.

 

The other week, when they were out for drinks with the gang, she told them he was becoming very high brow since he joined the local writing group, that she didn’t know what to do with him. She ruffled his hair, declaring his EPIC novel would be dedicated, of course, to her. The women smiled, while the men looked in their beer. He was convinced he saw Barry mouth queer to him. Lucy raised her glass and an eyebrow, telling them he was probably having an affair and that all these literary evenings were a front. She gave him a crooked grin, he pursed his lips and nodded, and then, being Lucy, planted a secure sloppy kiss on his cheek. Later when they were in bed, slicked in sweat, a little out of breath, she kissed his chest and said she loved that he was seeking his passion and that Barry was a prized dick anyway.

 

Malachy stood. His stomach lurched. The rain started to fall again. The last bus turned the corner. He could see it.

 

He could see it all; Lucy smiling, Juno pawing, Ben dawdling, Barry sneering, the Revolut transaction, woodchip walls, lino floors, baby wipes, bargain-basement towels, wine candles, purple lipstick, jasmine incense, the leather crop, whuh, whuh, whuh,

as he vomited into the night.

 

 

Roisín Browne lives in Rush, Co Dublin and has been published in A New Ulster, The Galway Review, The Stony Thursday Book, Live Encounters Poetry & Writing, Poetry NI, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Flare, MGV Datura, The Bangor Literary Journal, The Irish Times, The Gladstone Readings and Echoes from the Castle Anthology. She was commended in the Gregory O’Donoghue Awards in 2018 and shortlisted in The Seventh Annual Bangor Poetry Competition in 2019. She has also performed her work at the Sunflower Sessions, The Merg and most recently at The Fingal Poetry Festival.