Duration — a serial novella, part 11

Day Twenty Six of Thirty Days of Writing

I decide to walk to my mother’s house, but I am hesitant to arrive when she is still awake. Besides, I need to stretch my legs and elevate my heart rate after the flight. I want to run, but it doesn’t seem practical right now, its raining, and the Dublin streets are slick underneath my rubber and canvas shoes. For some reason the sound of my foot on stone and asphalt reminds me of Chloe, its been nearly a year, and as time progresses I can only think of the good times. It’s funny how memory works when relationships turn sower, fade, end.

Miguel is ​lying on his back, Chloe is on top rocking back and forth, she leans forward and the two finish having sex as if they were holding to each other for dear life. Marcia leans over and kisses Miguel, she then falls beside him, resting on his arm.​

“I gotta get a move on,” Miguel says.

Chloe squeeze his torso, “Do you have to go?

I’m meeting with the Dean,” Miguel begins, while pulling himself out of Chloe’s embrace, “at 11:30.”

I decide to take a cab the rest of the way, my bags are getting heavy and my back hurts. I catch the first cabbie that approaches.

“Howya? Where to?” the cabbie beckons from the open door as I stare into the abyss of the busy thoroughway, cars, workers, police, citizens, running about in the dim of the evening. The elaborate social drama playing out, while life’s anceint song drums upon the collective mass, enriching, absolving.

“Mate, your gonna be after your death if you ‘don get in,” the cabbie says in a concerned tone. I smile and hop into the cab, shutting the door

“Sorry man” I say, “I was gonna go to my moms, but I think….Neil Eugene’s on St. Patricks Way and 20th.”

Driving through downtown Dublin we pass small book stores, cafes, pubs, ancient cathedrals, and gaudy banks dotting the city skyline. The cab pulls to the front of the pub, the rain has settled to a steady trot, so instead of entering the pub immediately I make my way four blocks to Glasnevin Cemetery. When I enter the grounds, a large gray cat with a grumpy face rubs his wet fur on my leg. I pick him up and begin walking through the ancient cemetery, retracing memories, the petrichor, the smell of stone…

In a small cubicle space, filled with two small round desks, and a computer desk, five chairs, and a bookshelf, Chloe and Miguel sit facing each other at one of the desks. They each have a portion of Miguel’s thesis. Chloe is highlighting Miguel’s paper with various shades of highlighter.

“You’re writing about the vagina? Do you see why that might be fucked?” Chloe says. She places her highlighter in the cup on the small table, next to a small digital clock, counting down the one hour tutoring session

“Well, essentially, I write about the hymen…” Miguel begins, he motions with his hand as if he were lecturing.

“Well, essentially, you’re not an authority.”

“I’m discussing how men allegorically ejaculate upon the world, defiling a good thing,” Miguel says leaning back in his chair.

“You have a penis and you use it to defile women,” Chloe says, her laugh bounces off the vaunted ceiling and reverberates through the other cubicles.

Miguel places his pen on his paper and crosses his fingers, “Would you want to get a drink sometime?”

Chloe crosses her arms, her smile is like the Cheshire Cat, “Aren’t you sucking face with that 20 year old undergrad.”

“It isn’t anything serious.”

“What’s her name?”

“Are you avoiding the question?”