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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 13, Number 2, June 2019

Maeve O’Sullivan
Dublin, Ireland


We have been moving towards each other for several weeks now, gently and inexorably. I take his call on the black phone extension in my parents’ bedroom. In his soft Ulster tones, M asks me out. But this will be no ordinary first date: he has got two tickets to the Trinity Ball. On the night in question, we meet up in a pub off Grafton Street, shy in our formal wear.

his gift
matching my strapless dress—
a sprig of lilac

We have a night of gigging, dancing, chatting and—finally—kissing. At around six in the morning, we are leaning against a windowsill in Front Square with the early sun in our eyes. M fishes a crumpled joint out of his inside pocket, lights it up and hands it to me for the first drag. Absorbed, we fail to notice the man lying in the shrubbery nearby, observing us.

Thirty hours later, I’m back home in my bedroom, the one over the garage that never seems to get warm, even in summertime. I’m trying to study for my final exams, but am distracted by thoughts of my new amour. My father enters the room, carrying The Sunday Tribune. Does he not realise that I’m trying to do some revision? Ignoring my protestations, he places the paper on my desk, covering my notes.

his grandfather’s top hat
our diminishing spliff



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