Around the corner

Sunday night, somewhere in the south of England.

I'm lying across the bed on my back, head dangling off the edge, boots on the far wall. There are green stars scattered on the carpet, jelly rings on my fingers. The sashed window is open to the sounds of the street outside. I'm holding hands with the girl on the bed next to mine. I know we're both thinking of the same thing, how when we were walking through the town earlier we came across a silent park, and how, as we stood on its quiet pathways we heard the sound of fireworks. We couldn't see them at first, only the reflection of blues of and reds and greens in one of the glass-fronted hotels, showering us in unearthly light.


Wednesday night, Thursday morning.

Beneath the old trees on Drumcondra road. I have a pair of socks on my hands, pink with a glittery stripe. My nose is frozen. We're walking, we've been walking for a while, maybe an hour, the kind of walking that has no real destination. We're talking about chips, because they're hot and we're cold. It's 1am and we have to be up in a few hours for work.


Friday night.

I'm throwing a champagne box into a pile of dustbins, so that I can fit the bottle into my bag. Some of the streetlights are broken. I'm on my way to a bar I've never been to, and somewhere into the warren of darkened flats I call my friend. I think I'm lost and I tell him so. I'm laughing because I don't really mind, the night is mild and I could walk for ever. The bar is shuttered when I arrive, standing on a street of closed door and windows, no lights on. I open the door, and a chink of light falls out onto the pavement, letting out the chatter and life inside.


There are times when we all want to see into tomorrow. But it's the things we don't expect that matter.