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straight ahead. “Now we’ll see how the story goes.”
    This is what makes Abbey afraid of him; it’s also what makes her stay.
    After a while, Angela goes over to the bar for a second round of pints. Abbey rings the cottage but there’s no answer. She lets it ring eight times. Angela had suggested, “Let him sit on it for a while. Will you marry me? Fer fucksake.” She’d had a good laugh at that, her eyes widening, a pint of Guinness inher right hand, halfway to her mouth. Then she set it back down on the table without drinking. “Jesus,” she’d said, rethinking it. Abbey said nothing. “Jesus,” Angela said again.
    It was Angela who’d introduced Abbey and Dermot in the first place. They were meeting Michael for drinks and Dermot, in town for a visit, had tagged along.
    “Abbey, this is Dermot Fay,” Angela said as she sat down. Abbey was trying to find a place for her umbrella, so she gave him a sideways handshake; she had too many things—coat, hat, purse. Her fingers were wet. “Dermot used to teach with Michael at Trinity,” Ange added by way of an explanation. The three of them settled in; Michael was at the Museum in a meeting, had said he’d make it to the pub within half an hour. A woman came over to take their order. It was early and the place was only a quarter full.
    Dermot had turned to Abbey. “Are you studying or having a holiday?” He looked over her face, each feature, and it made her blush.
    “I’m working. But I’d like to see more of the country.”
    “Where’ve you been?”
    “Actually, I haven’t,” clearing her throat, “really left Dublin.” It was Dermot’s first good laugh of the evening.
    “How long have you been over?”
    “Four months.” She hated the sound of her voice, the flat accent.
    “And you haven’t left Dublin?” He looked amused. Later he said he’d admired her for that; after four months most people would be in a Guinness t-shirt, feigning a thick brogue, postcards from every county on the fridge back home. The waitresssuddenly between them, ready to drop off the first round. She passed a pint over to Angela. A few drops of stout sloshed out of the glass onto Abbey’s shirt. Dermot went over to the bar and got a cloth. Wiped the dark spots off Abbey’s sleeve.
    Michael and Angela had been going on about work—an exhibition of the Clonard hoard that Michael was involved in at the National Museum. Angela had studied under Michael at Trinity and he’d helped her find work at a local gallery.
    “Dermot’s going to see me back to the flat,” Abbey said, tapping Angela on the arm. It was late and Abbey had to work early. They walked through the crowd that had come in. He put his hand on the small of her back. A woman near the door eyed them wearily then went back to her brandy. Outside things were quiet. Dermot told Abbey he’d come to Dublin for an interview that didn’t pan out. Said he didn’t know how he’d arrived here, at this point in his life. “I’ve a thirst,” he added, then he asked her if she’d like to stop for another round.
    They went into The Old Stand and ordered drinks. He admitted he was lonely, told her about all the things he’d come through. Abbey didn’t say much of anything. Dermot watched her reactions as he went on talking, told her later that he’d said more than he thought he would. That there was something about her, an honesty that appealed to him.
    Later, they stopped between Meath hospital and Angela’s flat where Abbey was staying. She leaned up against a brick wall. Dermot came forward and kissed her. His hands found the back of her neck.
    After a minute he’d said, “Can I see you again?”
    Abbey nodded her head, surprised by his attention, the kiss. All night she’d felt wrong. Even in the loo when she’d looked in the mirror, she had noticed her eyeliner was smudged below her right eye. She’d taken a paper towel, wet it under the sink taps, rubbed away the kohl under her lower lashes,