Chapter Six #2
Donal does a double take over his shoulder. ‘Wow, did you hear that noise? That motorbike was going fast,’ he jokes as he puts the bike lock down on my step and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
‘Wasn’t it?’ I play back, smile at him, hold the bag to my stomach.
He steps back. ‘Well, enjoy.’ He directs his gaze downwards.
I don’t know what to say. My stomach flutters. It must be the hunger.
‘I enjoyed our chat this afternoon, very much,’ I blurt.
He looks up quickly, steps forward. ‘Yeah? God, so did I. It was really lovely, you were great company.’
I let that hang. ‘I really wasn’t. I was all me-me-me.
I thought on the walk home I barely let you get a word in, I’m sorry for being so needy .
. . and the stomach rumbling. I’ve been up to my eyes since I left you, flat out.
Actually this is my flat, and place of business and .
. .’ I raise my finger in the air. ‘Hooommme.’ I drag out the word and it doesn’t even sound like me.
‘E.T. phone . . . hommmmmeeeee.’ Donal raises his index finger to copy my move, doing a remarkably accurate E.T. impression.
I laugh, loudly. ‘Very good. Funny.’ Bending my back leg at the knee, I rest it halfway up the frame of the rusting green door.
He tries not to look anywhere but my face. ‘Sorry, I do that a lot . . . can’t help it . . .’
A silence falls between us. Donal scratches his beard, I scratch my chin.
‘I . . . better go up . . . hoooommmmeeee . . .’ I trail off, dipping my eyes to his dirty boots.
‘Well, there’s no place like home.’ Donal clicks the heels of the workman’s boots together three times and dust rises in the hot night air.
I applaud him, clapping my hand off the brown paper bag. ‘Wow, you’re on fire tonight.’
‘Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ His head jerks from side to side then freezes mid-jerk; he narrows his shoulders, hunching them up under his ears. ‘Sorry. I’ll stop now. Morto. I do this when I’m nervous . . .’
I wonder, under that big bushy ginger beard, are his cheeks flushing red? Those green eyes are so very expressive and with this apparent awkwardness of his I don’t hesitate to make him feel better. I put the bag down on the step in case it rips.
‘You talkin’ to me?’ I do my best De Niro in Taxi Driver. I see Donal’s face light up, his mouth opening, closing, then opening again as slowly his shoulders come down.
‘As far back as I remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,’ he says, in a perfect impression of Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. He even stands up taller, his long neck elongated.
‘I’m gonna go get the papers, get the papers.’ I raise my chin as I do my best Italian accent and deliver the line from the same film.
‘What a movie.’ Donal slaps his thigh, delighted.
‘The best,’ I agree.
Logan hated Goodfellas.
‘Favourite film?’ Donal asks me, pushing his hands further into his pockets so his shoulders hunch even higher.
‘I like old movies, romantic comedies . . .’ I peter out.
‘Just don’t give me the, “Is it raining? I hadn’t noticed”.’ Again, an unbelievably accurate impression of Andie MacDowell.
We both laugh again. I lean against the door frame, mightily impressed by his impressions.
‘Agree. Cringiest line in cinematic history,’ I declare.
Donal shakes his head. ‘That one goes to, “Nobody puts baby in the corner”.’
I gasp and wag a finger at him. ‘Now, now. Patrick Swayze can say anything and still be the sexiest man in the world. I wouldn’t have had you down for the romantic movie type.’
‘I’ve all sisters, and we had one telly and one DVD player in our house growing up.
I saw Dirty Dancing more times than we had hot dinners,’ he says pulling his hands free and raising them above his head.
‘I was made to practise that “having the time of my life” over-the-head dance move with them all. Not sure how I don’t have a bad back! ’
I let out a hearty laugh. ‘Brilliant!’
He holds his lower back now, bends back slightly.
A silence falls between us for the first time.
‘Well, I better let you go, you’ve probably more deliveries to—’
‘You’re my last one,’ he tells me. ‘Only stepped in for an hour to cover someone who got a flat on their scooter. I’m only fit for a freezing cold beer and my bed. Very long day in that heat.’ He stifles a yawn.
It’s out of my mouth way before my brain has given it the green light.
‘You’re more than welcome to pop up for a cold beer?’ I throw my eyes upwards, knowing I have some beers in the fridge. Whiplash. Logan’s favourite craft Irish beers. For when he comes back. If he ever comes back.
Donal waves a hand. ‘No, not at all. That wasn’t a hint.
You’ve your takeaway there – and it’s getting cold by the way – another time, maybe?
’ He picks up the brown paper bag and carefully hands it to me.
He then shoves his hands once again into the large, hanging-open pockets on his shorts but as he pushes them down the elasticated band of his boxer shorts is exposed on his hip bones.
Dazzling white. Branded. I’m a little caught off-guard. My stomach flutters again.
‘S-sure.’ I feel somewhat disappointed when I should be flooded with relief.
‘I do have another job by the way,’ he says. ‘Not that some people don’t do this job solely for a good living. I know many – all good people – but I’m working on something that’s using up a lot of money, so the delivery gig’s handy for the cash flow.’
He picks up his bike lock, puts his arm through it so it’s resting in the crook of his bent elbow and I notice his muscles. It’s unexpected. I wouldn’t have though Donal had muscle but he clearly does.
‘Maybe I can get your num—’
‘Spare any change for a hostel, lads?’ A young homeless guy interrupts.
He’s stood facing Donal, coming too close into his personal space, an equally skinny lurcher dog by his side, his ribs on show.
Even though the night is still very warm, he’s shivering, they both are.
He sniffs repeatedly, a small blue-and-white striped plastic bag, wrapped too tightly around his thin, marked wrist.
‘I’ve no change on me at all.’ Donal looks to me.
‘I had this for your tip.’ I uncurl the five euro note in my hand. I step in, close the door around me, suddenly realising that I’m half naked.
‘Ah you’re very good, thank you.’ Donal takes it and presses it into the man’s hand.
‘There’s an ATM down near the Bleeding Horse pub,’ he adds. ‘Come on with me, I’ll get some cash out and buy you something hot to eat in Aprile’s chipper.’ He reaches his hand down to pet the lurcher on the head.
‘Ah thanks, man.’ The guy sniffs again.
‘Sorry, Grace.’ Donal puts his hand on my bare arm. ‘Enjoy your Chinese before it’s freezing cold.’
‘Sorry, Mrs,’ the man mumbles.
I smile at him warmly, feeling guilty for holding a huge dinner for one in my hands.
‘It’s totally fine. Mind yourself.’
‘I’ll get him something to eat, I’ll sort him out.’ Again, Donal reads me like an open book.
‘Excellent,’ I murmur as Donal drapes his long arm around the guy’s scrawny shoulders and the three of them walk away. With a small smile, I shut the door, lean my back against it. He was about to ask me for my number. I could have asked him as my date to the party as a friend.
‘Damn it,’ I think. I missed my chance.