She looks at me but sees through me. Probably doesn’t even see my small smile that’s meant to be encouraging. And she’s gone around the bend and I’m faced with a long path ahead of me. A beautiful tree-lined path that arches over my head. But I can’t do it today. It looks endless, as though it leads to nowhere. And I don’t necessarily want it to end. I feel safe here, cocooned in the fresh cool air. As soon as I leave the grounds I’ll be faced with people, and smells, and traffic, and noise. And consequences and repercussions. Not today.
I take a few weary steps to the bench that says Lucy Curtain sat here, and I sit down with the ghost of her, weariness enveloping my body, aches and pains in parts of me that I don’t want to think about the root of. The dog walker and the Great Dane. The Great Dane off the leash, sniffs at my boots. I haven’t the energy to move him on. I may as well be a park statue. I expect a bird to poop on me. The old man and his son slowly walk by. Good morning, good morning, good morning, I practically whisper.
Then I know I’m good for a few minutes before anyone else appears. I close my eyes and go for one of those meditative mindfulness moments to convince myself that the world is okay, that I didn’t do last night what I think I did. It doesn’t work. Instead I’m alone to stew in my hangover. A sprinkle of cringe, a sprig of self-pity, a handful of regret. Low simmer for twenty-four hours.
I can’t say that I do the best job that morning. I try, but my efforts are weak. I issue more tickets than usual. I feel so exhausted, mentally drained, that I don’t have the brain capacity to work out whether to give a car twenty minutes’ grace or not between tickets. I just issue the tickets and leave. At one point I question whether I’m working on a Sunday, as so many cars haven’t paid. Rooster’s yellow Ferrari included. After my little breakdown at the post office yesterday, I move along quickly, and I’m too tired to feel ratty that he still hasn’t sorted his permit. If anything I wonder why Fingal office are taking so long granting his business permit. Maybe I should call them. Fidelma in the office is helpful.
The usual stuff all morning and then I am so relieved to take a break. I sit on the bench, with my bottle filled with water again. I just want to lie down and sleep. I’m pondering lying down on the bench, and whether doing so would get me fired, when Tristan joins me.
No lunch, he asks.
Too hungover.
Ah must have been a good night.
I groan and he laughs.
You didn’t ticket me.
Too hungover.
Wow, you must be really bad.
I have to give you fifteen minutes’ grace if your ticket has expired.
Parking wardens and grace don’t usually go together.
Those are the rules, I say. I down the water. I feel him watching me.
Where were you last night, he asks.
I don’t want to talk about last night.
He laughs even though I’m being serious.
Okay. I’ve been thinking since we last saw each other. Which was yesterday, in case you’ve forgotten, before your alcohol poisoning.
I roll my eyes.
I think your letters are a good idea. You should post them. I’m sorry that I was unsure about it. I feel an extra responsibility over the decisions you make as a result of what I said. I don’t want to make your life worse.
It couldn’t get any worse, I say. I surprise myself with saying that.
Shit.
No it’s okay. It’s my fault.
We sit with that for a while.
So you’re going to post the letters. To Amal Clooney and Katie Taylor and Ruth Brasil, he asks.
I sigh. I can’t think today. I don’t know. Maybe not.
Give them to me.
What, no.
I won’t read them. I’ll just post them for you.
I don’t know. Tristan, no, I slap his hand away. I don’t know. I can’t think.
That’s a good thing. You shouldn’t think about it. Thinking about it stopped you yesterday and you should just go for it. Sit there. Be hungover. I’ll post them. What’s the worst that can happen.
I embarrass myself.
No. No one will ever know.
You know.
I won’t tell a soul. Allegra, he fixes me with a serious stare, what’s the worst that can happen.
They don’t reply, I say.
Exactly. He shrugs. Who cares.
I care. I care if they don’t respond.
Do you have the letters on you.
They’re still in my bag from yesterday.
Let me see.
I open the zip in my jacket and fifteen of them slide out. I never rewrote the one to Carmencita. I didn’t have time after work yesterday even if I’d wanted to, and I don’t know what I want right now. At some stages this morning, in my worst moments of fear, I was considering going back home, giving up this job and this half-life in Dublin, but after the trip I’ve had, I don’t know what I’d be going home to. I’ve more going for me here, which isn’t saying a lot, and I should at least finish what I started.