The Heart's Invisible Furies

To my surprise, she reached down and kissed me on the cheek and gave me a curious look before the young girl dragged her away.

A few days later, I arrived as planned in the Yellow House and found my date sitting in a corner with his back to the room as if he didn’t want anyone to notice him.

“Andrew,” I said, taking the seat opposite him with a full view of the room. “I almost missed you there. It’s like you’re hiding away from the world.”

“Not at all,” he replied, laughing and ordering me a drink from one of the lads passing by. “How are you, Cyril? How was work today?”

“Grand,” I said, which led to the usual exchange of pleasantries for twenty minutes or so before I decided to get to the heart of things.

“Can I just ask?” I said. “And forgive me if this sounds ridiculous, but I was a little surprised when you invited me out in the first place. Is this just a friendship thing or is it something else?”

“It can be anything we want it to be,” he replied with a shrug. “We’re grown men, after all. And we’ve always got along, haven’t we?”

“That’s true,” I said. “You do know that I’m gay, right?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “I wouldn’t have asked you out otherwise.”

“Oh right,” I said. “So you’re gay too then? I wasn’t sure. I assumed but—”

“Here’s the thing, Cyril,” he said, leaning in a little. “I’m not really comfortable with labels, you know? They’re so defining.”

“Well, yes,” I agreed. “I mean, that is what labels do, by their nature. They define things.”

“Exactly. And it’s 1994, not the fifties. I feel like we should be past all that type of thing by now.”

“I suppose,” I said. “Sorry, what do you mean? What type of thing?”

“Labels.”

“Oh right. OK.”

“Anyway, tell me about you,” he said. “Are you married or anything?”

“No,” I said, deciding not to get into the technicalities of the completely honest answer. “Why would I be married? I just told you, I’m gay.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean anything. You work in the Dáil, for Christ’s sake. Throw a stick, as they say.”

“I suppose I’ve heard the odd rumor,” I admitted.

“So if you’re not married, are you seeing anyone right now?”

“No one special.”

“Anyone who isn’t special?”

“Actually, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not seeing anyone at all. And I haven’t in a long time. I was with someone for many years, but he died in 1987.”

“Oh right,” he said, pulling back a little. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask how he died?”

“We were both attacked in Central Park,” I explained. “I survived. He didn’t. The crutch is what I was left with.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and now he leaned back in, a gesture whose meaning was all too obvious to me.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I miss him, of course. A great deal. We should have had a long future together yet and that was stolen from us. But I’ve come to terms with it. Life happens and death happens. Do you know something?” I added, a thought coming into my head. “I’ve just realized that I’m forty-nine years old and yet this is the first time I’ve ever gone on a date in Ireland with another man.”

He frowned a little and took a long drink from his beer. “You’re in your fifties?” he asked. “I thought you were younger than that.”

I stared at him, wondering whether he was a little hard of hearing. “No,” I said. “I’m forty-nine. I just said.”

“Yes, but you don’t mean that you’re really forty-nine, do you?”

“What else would I mean?”

“Jesus, you’ve been off the dating scene quite a while, haven’t you? The thing is, most men looking for other men claim to be younger than they really are. Especially older men. If you meet a man from a personal ad and he says he’s in his late thirties, that means he’s pushing fifty and thinks he can get away with thirty-nine. Delusional, most of them, but you know. Whatever. When you said you’re forty-nine, I assumed that meant you were mid to late fifties in real life.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I really am forty-nine. I was born a few months after the war ended.”

“Which war?”

“The Second World War.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Well, not the First.”

“No. Obviously not. You’d be, like, a hundred then.”

“Well, not quite.”

“Close enough.”

“Do you meet a lot of people from personal ads?” I asked, wondering how he had done in history at school.

“From time to time,” he said. “I met a lad a couple of weeks ago, he said he was nineteen but when he showed up he was almost my own age. He was wearing a Blondie T-shirt, for Christ’s sake.”

“I used to have one of those,” I said. “But why would you want to meet someone who you thought was nineteen anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he said, laughing. “I’m not too old for a nineteen-year-old.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. But what would you have in common with a boy that age?”

“We don’t need to have anything in common. It wasn’t his conversational skills that I was after.”

I nodded, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Anyway, it just seems surprising to me, that’s all,” I said. “If you’re attracted to younger men, then why did you ask me out?”

“Because I’m attracted to you too. I’m attracted to lots of people.”

“OK,” I said, trying to process this and wishing for all the world that Bastiaan was sitting across from me drinking a beer and not this tosser.

“So how old are you?” I asked finally.

“Thirty-four.”

“So does that mean you’re really thirty-four?”

“It does. But I’m twenty-eight when I meet people.”

“You’re meeting me right now.”

“Yes, but that’s different. You’re older. So I can be my own age.”

“Right. And have you had many relationships?”

“Relationships? No,” he said, with a shrug. “That’s not really where my focus has been over the last ten years or so.”

“Where has your focus been?”

“Look, I’m a normal guy, Cyril. I like getting laid.”

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t you like getting laid?”

“Of course. I mean I did. Once.”

“When was the last time?”

“Seven years ago.”

He put his pint down and stared at me, his eyes opening wide. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked.

“I told you, that’s when Bastiaan died.”

“Yeah but…you’re telling me that you haven’t had sex since then?”

“Is that so strange?”

“It’s fucking weird is what it is.”

I said nothing; I wondered whether he realized how rude he was being.

“You must be fucking gagging for it,” he said, his voice rising a little, and I noticed a couple at the next table looking at us in disdain. Some things didn’t change.

“I’m not really,” I said quietly.

“Yeah, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“If you really are forty-nine, then you’re way too young to be closing up shop.”

“I am forty-nine,” I insisted. “And funnily enough you’re the second person to say something along those lines to me over the last few days.”

“Who was the first?”

“Mrs. Goggin.”

“Who’s Mrs. Goggin?”

I rolled my eyes. “I told you before. The lady from the tearoom.”

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