hand but decide against it. I’d probably just fuck that up, too. Maybe I should hint that I want to hold hands. Shit. How?
‘Do you like my gloves?’ I ask. They’re a white fingerless pair with a Fair Isle pattern. I quite like them. He smiles, to my relief.
‘Very pretty, just like you,’ he says. Oh my god. He’s flirting with me. Shit. Time to flirt back. Better pull out the big guns, Grace.
‘You’re pretty yourself,’ I say. Wonderful. Just splendid. He laughs. I want to throw my arms around him. Damn, he’s gorgeous. He’s got sandy hair swept to one side, blue eyes and a bit of stubble which I think is very sexy.
‘Where should we go now?’ he asks.
‘I’m kind of hungry. Why don’t we go to the Stephens Green shopping centre for food?’ I say. When we get there, I order a burrito. It’s only when we sit down that I deeply regret it. Burritos are impossible to eat seductively. Fuck, I’m going to dribble salsa and melted cheese down my chin. To make matters worse, Michael doesn’t get any food. I peel away the tinfoil and stare at the burrito. You are my Everest, I think. You greasy, sloppy thing. Please don’t let me down. I take a bite. Nothing spills anywhere, thank god.
‘I’m going to look so unattractive eating this,’ I say.
‘That’s not possible,’ he says. Christ, he’s smoother than a Galaxy. Would it be weird to reach across the table and shift the face off him? Yes, probably.
I eat a few more bites before demurely wrapping up the burrito and putting it in my handbag.
‘Aren’t you going to eat the rest of it?’ he asks.
‘No, I’m not that hungry,’ I lie, at the same time my stomach growls. Michael laughs. Jesus, he’s beautiful when he laughs. I reach out and touch his hair. Thankfully he doesn’t pull away. It feels just as soft and shiny as it looks. Christ, I’m turning to mush.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ I say. Good one, Grace. Stepping up that flirting game! Turning it up to eleven. He’ll be smitten by the end of the night.
After that we head to my favourite pub, Doyle’s. It’s got a cosy old man feel but is always swarming with young people. We find a nice nook and get some cold beers. The conversation just keeps flowing. I barely know Michael and yet I feel like I can tell him anything. I have a knot of anxiety in my stomach throughout, though, knowing that he’ll probably want a kiss at the end of the night. I know I’ve kissed boys before, but I feel I’ll mess it up with him. Utterly silly, I know. I feel I’ll forget how to do it and won’t know what to do with my lips. I’ll probably end up accidentally licking his face or something, like those Mormon women kissing their husbands for the first time on trashy late night television channels.
I try to push these thoughts to the back of my mind. I’m acutely aware of Michael’s leg pressing against mine. Oh my god. The delicious heat of it. I long to squeeze his thigh, just hold it in my hot palm.
The hours melt by and I realise I’ll miss my last bus if I don’t leave soon.
‘This has been lovely, Michael, but I have to go now,’ I say. I wonder if I should ask him about a second date. Fuck. What if he says no?
‘Would you be free to meet up again?’ I ask, preparing myself for the inevitable rejection.
‘I’d love to. How about next week?’ he says. I can’t stop myself this time and throw my arms around him, kissing him on the cheek.
‘Can’t wait,’ I say. Before I can say another word, he’s pressed his lips against mine. His are so soft and warm and mine move perfectly in response to them. When we break apart, we’re both blushing and grinning.
‘That was wonderful,’ I say. As we’re walking to my bus stop, he slips his hand into mine. My heart almost breaks from my body and floats up to the stars. He kisses me goodbye at the bus stop and I float onto my bus, trembling all over.
I call Ciara when I get home.
‘Oh my god, Ciara, everything was amazing. He’s gorgeous and funny and sweet. And we’re meeting again next week. And he kissed me!’
‘Calm down, you mad scone. He better have treated you right,’ she says.
‘Oh, he did. Such a gentleman. I can’t wait to see him again.’
I can barely think of anything else over the following days. Michael’s face burns through my brain every minute. I’m shaking with nerves waiting for him at Trinity College a week later. I break out into a big cheesy grin when I see him walking towards me. He hugs me and this time I hug him back.
We spend many blissful hours together. And then, just as he’s hugging me goodbye, I fart. Not a dainty, quiet little one that slides out like butter, either. A rat-tat-tat machine gun one that seems to stretch out for hours. Oh sweet Jesus, smite me down now. Michael laughs.
‘Better out than in, like Shrek says,’ he says. Fuck, he’s too perfect. I laugh too and we’re both in each other’s arms laughing like maniacs. I text Ciara on the bus home: ‘I farted when he hugged me.’ She replies: ‘It can only get better from here.’
The weeks slip by and I become madder about Michael. Oh, there’s some nice alliteration. We have the best time together and our kisses are amazing. It’s not long before we’re officially girlfriend and boyfriend. And then the day comes when it’s time for Michael to meet my family.
My mam spends all morning cooking a lovely dinner. Michael arrives at around two o’clock. Sadly, this is around the same time that my dad is roaring drunk.
‘Nice to meet you, Mike,’ he shouts when Michael comes in. He grasps Michael’s hand and pumps it up and down. Michael smiles.
‘Lovely to meet you too, Mr. O’Donoghue,’ he says. (Yes, my initials are GOD. I’ve heard all the jokes already).
Besides my dad cracking some racist jokes, dinner goes smoothly. Mam is scooping out ice cream on top of bowls of apple crumble when my brother walks in. Tom is sixteen and a total goth. His eyes are smeared with eyeliner, his nails are painted black, his hair is pink and he’s wearing lots of black leather.
‘Who’s this?’ he asks.
‘I’m Michael,’ says Michael.
Tom laughs.
‘God, you must be desperate to hang around this sad bitch,’ he says, pointing a thumb at me.
‘Fuck off, you little freak,’ I say. Tom grabs some ice cream and disappears.
‘I don’t know what happened with him, Mike,’ says my dad.
‘It’s Michael, Dad,’ I say. My father frowns at me. Oh, no. I can see in his eyes that he’s made the swift transition from happy drunk to surly drunk.
‘I’ll call him whatever I want in my own fucking house,’ he says.
‘No need to speak to her like that,’ says Michael. His smile has faded and he’s glowering at my dad. Before I can do anything, my dad stands up, grabs Michael by the scruff of the neck and squares up to him.
‘Get the fuck out of my house, you ignorant little shit,’ he says.
‘John, let him go,’ says my mam. I burst into tears. Michael takes my hand.