The Rachel Incident

by Caroline O'Donoghue

I decided to cut through the English Market on my way home, for no reason other than it brought me joy.

I stopped sizing others up in accordance with the values I had been taught: who was a loser, who was closeted, who was cheating on their wife. I learned the value of context, and of people. It came in handy later on, when I became a journalist.

“You’re supposed to love me the most.” The baldness of this. It was something neither of us would say to a boyfriend, terrified as we were of admitting raw and open need. But we could say it to each other.

One page per one minute of screen time. Figure out what they want and don’t give it to them. Show, don’t tell. No character should have five lines of uninterrupted dialogue at any time.

We thought he would be delighted. In the moment, he was. But it planted a seed of something bad in him, and the seed sprouted wildly over the next few weeks.

“He’s just jealous. And lonely. He’s in the closet alone, now.”

I realised it was loneliness. They saw it in each other instantly. Both were charismatic, both were well liked, and yet both were litter mates of solitude.

decadent treat once a week or so than to thin one’s insides

Just a chubby student with a crush.

I don’t know anyone who chases after stuff the way you do. I think you just want this big huge exceptional life, and you’re probably going to have a huge big exceptional love that goes with it.”

Carey could be spacey and unreliable, but he didn’t live with secrets. Not the way I did.