We were teenage sweethearts, Saoirse and I. She was exquisite, and seventeen; I was a couple of years the older. She was blonde and wispily slight with a delicate, bone-china complexion. Her green eyes were depthless pools – I’m sorry, but this is a love story – and I drowned in them. She had ama...
How do you compute boreens and crows and dishwater skies and make it add up to a nineteen year old who walks into a party and every girl in the place goes loop-the-loop? But not walks—walked. The party has been over for fifteen years. It was in Galway, a Saturday night, a Sunday morning, after th...
There is nothing rational about it nor even entirely sane and this is the great attraction. He’s been travelling half the night east and nobody has seen him—if you keep your eyes down, they can’t see you. Across the strung-out skies and through the eerie airports and now he sits in the back of th...
Wolfie was zipped neck-deep into a velveteen puffa, and all to be seen was the vicious little head, with his eyes swivelling left and right to check out the sideways for lurking aggravators. Fucker was in a stripey dress shirt made out of a fine yellow cheesecloth – he was the sort of young fella...