Liam tells me. “It backs right onto the square.” As we pass the empty playground two raccoons scamper by and he points to them and says, “Look at that. I’ve never seen one in the flesh before.” “No raccoons in Ireland?” I ask. “Some people might have them as exotic pets,” he says, “but they’re not a native species. There aren’t any wild skunks either.” “I didn’t know that.” We watch the raccoons as we stride on. I tell Liam about how when Bastien and I first moved into our apartment in Toronto the raccoons used to wreak havoc on our trash all the time and we’d wake up to find it strewn across the front lawn and sidewalk. We had to buy a special hook to raccoon-proof our garbage and recycle bins. “And one of the neighbor’s dogs got gashed across the snout by a raccoon and needed five stitches.” The raccoon conversation feels extraneous and awkward, worse than not saying anything, and I fall quiet again—we both do until we reach Liam’s building.
