Andy

Andy was so Irish, in a way that reminded her of her childhood. And of all the things she had promised herself she would do. Of course he had lived in Camden town. They had probably passed on the street. When she had escaped and wandered the maze of stalls alone and purchased her first pair of Doc Martens at fourteen (which she proudly slung over her shoulder in a bright plastic bag.) Or when she had escaped again at nineteen and bought her first piece (which she guiltily wrapped in tissue and stuffed in her pocket.) The bowl was white porcelain, etched with black paint, and it would later seek its demise on a Bostonian sidewalk.

Then, again enslaved, she rested her chin on top of a half-pint glass in a Camden beer garden and watched three Irishmen in the sun. The words of her enslavers floated (or rather jabbed) over her head, ignored. The Irish were shirtless and pink from the sun, talking loudly and gesturing dramatically. And really more boys than men. Their bodies were yet impervious to gain, their tattoos and pale blank spaces taut over sinewy flesh.

Andy reminded her of being ten-years-old in Cardiff. Watching an Irish band from behind her brother's elbow. No, watching hooligans watching an Irish band. Irish hooligans, she assumed. But they could have been Welsh. But all she saw was skin and mohawks and legs wrapped around shoulders.

At any rate, there he was behind the bar. Anne clutched her knees and her vodka tonic (she forgave him for giving her the wrong drink.) He rested his hand dangerously close to her as he obtained a drink order from a German tourist. His hands were feminine and white, and his fingers spread over the mahogany bar elegantly. She wanted to touch his rings but she did not. Instead, she turned to Sarina and prattled about something. But there was that ringed hand again, caressing an India pale ale.

"Have you got a cigarette, lovie?"

Anne fished through her bag and pulled out an empty carton of Marlboro Lights. Fucking typical.

But Andy served last call. And Anne bestowed a lipstick lip-print on Sarina's forearm and put her in a cab. And then Anne collected Andy off the street and scooped up his piercings and his tattoos and his dreadlocks. He was lost.

All his years were written on his face in an appealing way. There was India, there was London, there was Dublin, there was New York. She rambled on, pretending not to watch him performing her favorite male activity of rolling a joint. Her knee hit the coffee table and caused the record to skip. There was his strange laugh. She wanted to stand up and trace the lines on his forehead with her fingertips.

But then he looked at her. And in the light of her living room, his blue eyes seemed candidly earnest. And that exposed look of maybe-wanting-to kiss her couldn't have been right. It was innocent. It couldn't have been right.

There was something about him that made her excited about living life.