So Late in the Day: Stories of Men and Women

by Claire Keegan

so much of life carrying smoothly on, despite the tangle of human upsets and the knowledge of how everything must end.

He took up the coffee, leaving before he’d sugared it, before she could say anything more.

For no particular reason, a part of him doubted that the bus would come that day, but it soon came up Westland Row and pulled in, as usual, to let the passengers on.

but found he wasn’t ready – then wondered if anyone ever was ready for what was difficult or painful.

‘Do you think I’m made of money?’ he’d said – and immediately felt the long shadow of his father’s language crossing over his life, on what should have been a good day, if not one of his happiest.

A feeling not unlike happiness momentarily crossed over his lips then, and down his throat.

Maybe it’s just too much reality.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, truthfully. ‘I’ve never once thought about it.’ ‘But am I not asking you to think about it now?’

‘She said things may now be changing, but that a good half of men your age just want us to shut up and give you what you want, that you’re spoiled and turn contemptible when things don’t go your way.’ ‘Is that so?’ He wanted to deny it, but it felt uncomfortably close to a truth he had not once considered.

That was the problem with women falling out of love; the veil of romance fell away from their eyes, and they looked in and could read you.

– it’s all clitched onto the same wagon.’ ‘Hitched,’ Cathal said. ‘What?’ ‘It’s not “clitched”,’ he said. ‘It’s “hitched”.’ ‘You see?’ she said. ‘Is not this just more of it? You knew exactly what I meant – but you cannot even give me this much.’

He had looked at her then and again saw something ugly about himself reflected back at him, in her gaze.

but his father had laughed – all three of them had laughed,

She looked at the horizon and found herself offering up thanks to something she did not sincerely believe in.

Please respect the privacy of artists-in-residence.

There, without invitation, the professor sat down in what she considered to be her place and turned the cup upright on its saucer.

Already, she had made the incision in place and time, and infused it with a climate, and longing. There was earth and fire and water on these pages; there was a man and a woman and human loneliness, disappointment. Something about the work was elemental and plain.

He was free with his money, kept it crumpled in his pocket like old receipts, didn’t smooth the notes out even when he was handing them over.