The Reading Group – Part 2: Chapter Twelve

The restaurant on Camden Street had candles in old wine bottles and a waiter who called them both love without apology. Declan ordered a bottle of red without asking Niamh's opinion, then looked up at her with alarm.

"You can tell me I'm wrong about the wine," he said.

"I'm not going to tell you that," said Niamh. "I'm going to tell you I'm surprised you chose something drinkable."

"I'm a complicated man."

"You're a pretentious one."

"Those are often the same thing," said Declan, and he was smiling as he poured.

They argued through the starter, the main and a shared plate of chips that neither of them admitted to wanting. They argued about the novel's ending, the clumsy metaphors, the scene in chapter eleven where the protagonist stood at a window and wept for four pages, and whether that was the author's genius or his cowardice.

"It's cowardice," said Niamh. "He's hiding behind the weather."

"It's genius," said Declan. "He's hiding behind the rain, which is how you know it's sad."

"You're being very dramatic."

"I'm being very Irish. We're all dramatic. It's the rain."

She laughed, and he watched her laugh with a look that made the candle flames seem to lean closer.

When they walked out into the wet Dublin night, the rain had settled into a soft mist that blurred the streetlights into halos. They took the long way, along the Grand Canal, past the locks and the moored barges and the tall, quiet houses.

"Can I ask you something?" said Declan, under the bridge.

"Yes."

"Why did you really leave Galway? Not the job. The man."

Niamh stopped walking. The water below them was black and still, reflecting the lamps.

"Because he wanted me to stay small," she said. "He liked me quiet and agreeable. Every time I tried to say something he didn't like, he'd sigh and change the subject. I spent three years learning to apologise for things I hadn't done."

Declan was quiet. Then he took her hand, gently, his fingers cool from the rain.

"You're not small," he said. "You argue with me about metaphors until midnight. Nobody else in Dublin has the nerve."

Niamh laughed, a little shakily. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Why did you stop going to the reading group before? You always sat by the window, and never talked. You were there, but you weren't really there."

Declan looked down at their joined hands.

"Because I was waiting for someone to disagree with me properly," he said, very quietly. "I'd finished the book months before and nobody else had. I was tired of being the only one who had something to say about it."

"And now?"

"Now I've got an entire argument," said Declan, and his voice cracked, just slightly. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me kiss you here, under this bridge, with the lamps reflected in the canal and the rain falling on us both? I think it's the best scene in the book."

Niamh's breath caught. She laughed, bright and surprised. "Yes," she said. "But if I say stop, you have to read me chapter twelve, aloud, in that dramatic voice."

"Deal," said Declan, and stepped closer.

He kissed her slowly, the rain soft on their faces, his hand warm against her cold cheek. She leaned into him, her hands finding the lapels of his coat, steady and certain. The kiss tasted of red wine and rain, unhurried and sure, and beneath the bridge the water murmured softly, carrying the lights away.

When they parted, both of them were laughing softly.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Niamh. "Very green. Now read me chapter twelve, Declan, and don't you dare make the ending sad."

"It is sad," said Declan, and took her arm, grinning. "But the rain is very beautiful about it."