It’s

It's three p.m. on a Thursday in St. Stephen's Green and it's sunny - so ridiculously sunny for Dublin that everyone's out and everyone's in shirtsleeves and everyone's on the grass and someone, some bold someone, is smoking pot; it floats on by in a sour whiff and Em and I remark on the absolute

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Country Roads

The landlords have a realtor called Patrick whose job it is now to troop prospective renters through my soon-to-be ex-bedsit. Sometimes he calls first, other times he doesn't. I'm hungover one morning when I hear the timid knock on the door - hello? And then it's all, dammit, because when falling into bed tipsy the

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Taxicab Duets

Drinks at Kennedy's with my former classmates turns into a tipsy nighttime walk through City Centre turns into drinks and dancing at 4 Dame Lane. Untiss untiss untiss. Untiss untiss untiss. Talk of our novels, talk of our poetry, talk of our master's portfolios; of marriage and children and Beckett and Hardy and confessional poets

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