the doors of dublin

I arrive home half an hour late for dinner. Not that it matters much. We eat in front of the telly. It does mean I’ve missed Neighbours, though. He won’t be happy, and I’ll have to listen to a detailed, excruciatingly accurate recount of what happened this Tuesday in Ramsay Street. Then he’ll be happy. And then, finally, he will withdraw my punishment and hand me my plate. Maybe he won’t have eaten yet either. Maybe he will have waited.

It is dark when the taxi turns into my street and I have to explain to the driver that my house is the third one along, not including the house on the corner, because its front gate actually faces onto the street perpendicular to mine. This proves difficult and I wish I had just said fourth house, that my house is the fourth one along. With the white fence, the white bricks. The driver grunts and I don’t bother to apologise. I am exhausted. A special kind of exhausted. It was a nasty 24-hour flight and I’m not even sure I want to be back.

I pay the driver and to my astonishment he gets out of the car to help with the luggage. The boot opens and as my bags form a pile on the side of the road, I wonder if maybe that’s where they should stay.

'You want me to take this up to the door?’ the driver says.

I swallow my sigh. ‘No, it’s fine. I can manage.'

'All right then, miss. You go inside and get some sleep then.’

I must look terrible. ‘Thanks. Seeya.’

I stare at my bags and think about being back at work the very next morning, replying to two months worth of inane emails about pen stockists and the wonderful savings you can make when you purchase in bulk.

The front light switches on. I look up and notice, briefly before it is swung open, that the door is a bright yellow. Brian jumps down the stairs and practically runs to me. Like a dog, I think. His hair is thick and uncut.

'Sweetie,’ he says and holds my face, kisses me on the lips, my cracked-nostril nose. I get hay fever on planes. Perhaps it’s the altitude.

'Laura, honey, I’ve missed you so much.’

'What happened to the door?’

'Well, I painted it, honey.’ He laughs and kisses me again and again, on the cheek, on the forehead. ‘Actually, that’s the name of the colour. Honey. Do you like it?’

Honey. He never calls, called me honey.

'You painted it?’

'Yes. Can’t you see?’ He is beaming.

I shake my head, smile. ‘Why?’

'Well, sweetie, honnneeeyy,’ he laughs. ‘I got your postcard. You said the yellow ones were your favourite.’

I am speechless. I stare at him for a moment and can’t help but think how goddamn tired I am. ‘So you missed me, huh?’

'More than you can imagine,’ he says. ‘Did you miss me?’

'Well, yeah. I said that in the postcard didn’t I?’

Brian laughs and puts his arm around my waist, squeezes me. We take the bags inside, put them in a pile on the bedroom floor, sit down to eat and talk about Neighbours.