Belinda McKeon - Tender

* * *

Dear Callous Cit,

Why no love from you? Have you been so swept up into a transatlantic cyber affair that you have forgotten your sunburned, Italo-groped friend entirely? I am very sad not to have heard from you. You have caused me to look at the postman with such pathetic hope that he, along with every other man in this kip of a village, thinks he is in with a flying chance of a shag. Thanks v. much.

James, however, has been a little more forthcoming. Is this not v.v. exciting, this rapidly developing non-cyber, real-life-actual-boy love affair? James seems to be properly smitten. I am SO smug. Isn’t the story about the photo and the line from the poem the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard? Very cute of James. Very—

* * *

She knew nothing of a photo. She knew nothing of a line from a poem.

* * *

She put this information with the other scraps of information. The things she knew it was better that she had never heard at all. The things she knew it was better for her to ignore.

* * *

But it refused, like all the rest of them, to leave her mind alone.

Thinking, What poem?

James did not read poems.

James did not harvest lines and gather them.

So what line had James taken from a poem?

* * *

It ran through her mind in the nighttime and in the daytime, and it would not leave her be.

But she knew.

A voice calling out to her as she cut through campus.

PhotoSoc Lisa. Smiling, waving, happy-looking; why did everyone look so bloody happy?

Wanting to talk to Catherine about the photo she had been keeping for her; the photo of James that Catherine had taken with the Rolleiflex. Apologizing; walking towards Catherine, Lisa was already apologizing, already explaining; she had kept it, she was saying, for weeks, had been carrying it around in her bag, even, in the hope of bumping into Catherine just like this. Imagine! And now she had, and she didn’t have it with her—

And it was all right, Catherine said, shrugging, wanting to be free of her; she could give it to her another time.

But Lisa, shaking her head, holding up her hands as though surrendering, and saying no, saying Catherine didn’t understand: the photo was already gone. She had the negatives, of course — she could do another copy — but the photo was gone. It was just that she had bumped into Liam, one day — right here, in fact, just a week or so ago — and she and Liam had been chatting, and naturally, James had come up in conversation — wasn’t it just so lovely about Liam and James? — and she had taken out Catherine’s photo of James, which she had still had on her, to show to Liam, and, well, it was just that Liam had loved it so much, had been so very taken with it—

And she had the negatives, she said again, and she could make another copy.

And as for that amazing portrait that James had made this month of Liam—

Had Catherine seen it?

It was beautiful, really beautiful; he was going to give it to Lisa for the John Street show, of course — it would be the centerpiece of the whole show, even, possibly—

Catherine was coming to the opening, wasn’t she? James had passed on her invitation?

* * *

The name of the photo? Oh, yes, it had some name — some name from a poem — wait, now, until she thought of it; wait until she got it—

The heart is a thing that happens, would that be it?

The heart is where it happens?

The heart, anyway. She knew that much. She was certain of that much. It was the heart something, the heart— something to do with the heart.

The heart—

The heart—

* * *

Fuck the heart, Catherine said, and Lisa stared.

And of course she would not always do this, Catherine assured herself.

Of course, in the future, there would be others, and by then, Catherine assured herself, it would be fine. There would, by then, be no need. No problem. Everyone would get along swimmingly, and nicknames would be bestowed, and fondness would only grow with each golden, gorgeous evening—

A perfect future summer.

I really like him, Catherine. I mean, really. He’s—

And James would say what he was. Whoever he was. James would say the sentence about him. James would finish the sentence.

And Catherine would listen, and smile.

* * *

Liam’s voice as he answered the phone so confident, so bright. Expecting someone else, by the sound of it. Expecting someone who would bring something else to him.

Not this story that it was Catherine’s only choice, now, to bring.

Her only option.

And yes, yes, said Liam, sounding bewildered, he could meet her that evening in O’Brien’s. But would James—?

* * *

No, James would not be.

This would be just them.

* * *

And so what of it, if it was not happening in reality anymore, the thing Catherine told Liam was happening — the thing she told him was happening often, happening whenever the circumstances could allow?

What of it, if that thing was not actually, any longer, taking place?

Because it had happened. It had happened often.

And because it was happening. It was happening, every minute of every day still, in her mind.

* * *

His hands. His lips. His eyes.

His tongue, full and supple against hers.

And already waiting — already there — and surely that meant something? Surely that meant—?

His breath. The sound of it. The sound of what happened to it.

His hands. His lips. His eyes.

The way she wanted him to fuck her and fuck her until she dissolved.

* * *

The way he obliged.

* * *

The way he did not seem able to help himself; the way he was — and this was so normal, after all, she stressed, so understandable —so unsettled, so confused. Because, she said to Liam, these things were, after all, complicated, weren’t they? These things — she was sure that he himself had had his doubts…

“My doubts? ” Liam said, looking at her almost wildly, and for a moment Catherine thought he had said My dice?

(That accent. That accent which should never, ever, have been trusted.)

“No, Catherine,” he said, and he did it to her name again, rolled it out as though it was a name in another language. “I’ve never had my doubts .”

* * *

(Well, that was his business.)

* * *

Well, it was just that she thought he deserved to know, was all, Catherine said, turning the beer mat over and over in her hands.

Pieces flaking and crumbling off of it. The thick square of it, soggy with the Guinness she had spilled, sitting down.

It was just, Catherine said, that she had decided that — for both their sakes — this could not go on any longer.

This deception.

This lie.

Did he see what she meant? Did he understand why she had had to tell him?

(Dates, all stored up and ready to give to him. Evenings, and mornings, and weekends; because she had known every moment of that summer. She had known, every moment, where James was, and she could remember every evening that he had been with her, and every evening that he had not, and so, she could list them out.)

* * *

“I can’t believe this, Catherine,” Liam said, but she could see that he could.

The trouble in his eyes; she could see the trouble she had put there.

And she had never had any doubt, really, but that he would believe her.

Because, when it came down to it, really, how could you ever be sure of knowing any other person?

Really knowing them?