Short Story: It's So Peaceful In The…

Short Story: It's So Peaceful In The Country

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to the country.”

“The country! Why?”

“I want to give you something.”

“Oh no. No, that’s not necessary. I want for nothing, you should know.”

An Irish girl, congenitally cautious. An Irish girl who must say ‘no’ at least three times; an Irish girl who’s drenched in ‘I‘m not able;’ an Irish girl dwelling in the grey, seldom the black and white. But I’m American, open and honest and direct. What chance do I have with her? I’ll ask her.

“Do I have a chance with you?”

She freezes. She looks straight ahead. She says nothing when I miss the turn-on for the M6. I’m determined. It’s now or never.

She changes the subject, as I knew she must. “Remember when we spent the longest night on the telephone? What began as a chat went on and on and with all that talk I admitted that I’m better on the telephone, better there than when we’re face to face. And that’s ’cause I can’t see you, and you can’t see me.”

“Why is that so?

“Because I’m Irish. I can be more direct when I hide my face from you. The telephone is my hiding place, don’t you know.”

“Why must you hide from me?”

“I hide because you terrify me with your ‘say what you mean, mean what you say’ Yank-talk.”

“Ah, I see. In that case I’ll repeat what I asked. Pretend we are on the phone. Now, do I have a chance with you?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I want to know you. But you must allow me to know you.”

“What do you want with a simple bog girl?”

“You don’t trust me?

Her silence collapses us.

It’s like talking to someone wearing an oxygen mask--every word a struggle, one breath per word. And when I glance over to her I see that she has cupped her hands in her lap. I look up. A single tear falls to her cheek.

“We’re almost there."

“I’m a bog girl, a simple bog girl. What do you want with the likes of me?” Her voice breaks and more tears spill from her eyes.

I roll into the car park and shut the engine. I place my hand on her shoulder for a moment. She dabs a tissue beneath her eyes. “What’s going on with you?” she asks.

We are shown to a corner table in a quaint restaurant. Wine is poured. I put the ring box in her hand, hold my hand over her hand.

“Oh, no. No, I cannot.”

“Open it.”

Her hands are shaking, her eyes newly wet.

I slip the Claddagh ring on her finger. “Wear it for me?”

I collect her tears with my fingers. She repositions the ring so the hearts point inward. “Will you be kind to me?”

“Always.”

She nods slowly, whispers, “I will wear it.”

Her kiss flies to my cheek.