september first

It’s already raining when you step out of the bar. Just past two in the morning. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and some new friends wink and skip away. For the third time, probably, you ask for his name: Paul, he must say. Ella. That’s you. He hitchhiked to Galway the day before, but he’s been travelling Europe since April. Now that you aren’t dancing, he tells you the story.  

Cameras? you say. The rain’s too heavy so you’re underneath the canopy of an old-stoned office building. He keeps twisting the knobs of this wall plaque, on and off, don’t worry, I’ll put them back.  

Promise? Somehow you’re talking about church. Somehow you have one of the knobs in your left hand. The rain slows down, or you both forget about it, because then you’re walking down River Corrib, rubbled, wet, a dream. The path will remind you of him for the next three months, but tonight it’s brand new and just yours and, the water’s moving really fast, he says. A few times. It becomes a joke. Spiders must love the damp because they’ve sewn all over, thick-bodied, nursing sparkling webs. Maybe that’s why he takes your hand. You get, finally, to the basics.  

Favorite color? There’s a low, plastic sign, a written history of the old river, soaked in little dew-bubbles from the rain. He points at it—navy blue, that’s my favorite, are you shitting with me? No, it’s a good color. It’s fine. Now my hands are wet. Mine too. Your hair smells good. Rain does wonders. You find a homey offshoot. The water’s still on the other side, foaming and shining yellow, a color echo of the weak streetlight across the way. You’re not so drunk anymore. He has a little brother, you have one too. He tells you about the two ladies who drove him there from Dublin. Boytoy. They called me their boytoy.  

Did they? At home, he does woodwork with his grandparents. He’s green-eyed, glossy. You don’t let him walk you all the way home, just so much that you’re both in the direction you need to go, a taxi? You laugh. You were three thousand miles away this morning, but you still want to walk home. 

This morning? It’s already this morning again. Don’t kiss him. Regret it. This is the perfect love: it won’t find you anywhere and it’s more beautiful every day.