Letters from Galway – Part 2: The Boat

The boat was called Saoirse, and she smelled of rope and diesel and tea. Cian had scrubbed the deck the night before; Aoife could tell by the damp patches in the corners, and it touched her more than flowers.

He steered them out past the harbour wall into a bay the colour of a pearl. The sky was low and soft. A seal watched them from a rock, unimpressed.

"There," said Cian, cutting the engine. The boat drifted. "That's the light I told you about."

"It's better than the letter."

"Nothing's better than the letter. I rewrote it six times."

She sat beside him on the bench, their shoulders touching, the whole grey-silver world quiet around them. A gull cried once and was still.

"Can I ask you something?" said Aoife.

"Yes."

"Did you mean it? The last line of the last one. 'I would like to meet you properly.' Properly."

"I meant every word." His hand found hers on the bench, rough and warm. "I meant a great deal more than I wrote."

"Then would you like to say it out loud?"

Cian took a breath, looking at the water. "I'd like to kiss you," he said. "If you'll let me."

"Yes," said Aoife. "And if I say stop, you must read me the swan letter, out loud, in a voice."

"That's a terrible threat," said Cian, and turned to her.

He kissed her gently, one hand rising to her cheek, the taste of tea and sea air between them. It was slow and a little shy, a question and its answer, while the boat turned in a lazy circle and the seal slid off its rock. The light spread out silver over the bay.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Aoife. "Very green."

"I'll write to you tonight," said Cian.

"I'm sitting next to you."

"I know," he said. "I'll write anyway."

More romantic stories: Salt and Sugar · The Chess Club · The Glassblower's Daughter