“All I want to do is write stories, make things, listen to Joanna Newsom, fuck, make babies, raise kids and puppies into happy old dogs and happy young people. I want to see everything as I am meant to whilst I still have one good eye.”
And now I realise why we’re sat here without the heating on, a candle in an empty bottle of Havana Club, with the snow outside, the great snow of November 2010, the snow that killed and thrilled. I’m being seduced. But I’m already his wife. And it excites me he feels he has to seduce me still. He feels sadder about his sight than I thought.
That night, we put on Baby Birch from Newsom’s ‘Have One On Me’ album, and around 6 minutes in, we kissed, and we fucked and I watched him sleep and imagined how seeing with one eye really is.
I covered my right eye, and I knew this time next year we’d have a dog. Camera shutter sounds. Mandolins. Remembering the shape of a park but being far away from it. The time he got drunk in Dublin, up by Synge Street with the back-to-front houses. He sobbed like a little boy, the first and only time in nine years. He held me like I was everything.
This time next year, I’d hold my belly, more of a pleased creature than I ever would be again. Triumphant and happy.