Bullfighting by Roddy Doyle

By Roddy Doyle

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In case. You know. —Works both ways, brother, said Davie. —You’ll be grand, Noel. —Just, wanted. To say it. He died four days after. The trick was the diet. As far as he could see, from what he’d read on Google. It wasn’t really a disease. It was more like, waiting to be a disease. Most people who had it didn’t even know. Plenty of fresh stuff, vegetables and that. No nuts or big seeds, nothing that might block one of the pockets on his colon. For fuck sake. My arse is a time bomb, lads. He could hear himself saying it.

A bit scared. Her leg pressed against his. Nothing sexy about it. Nice, though. The thought. Then they’d met in the corridor. Him going to the toilet, her coming back. They smiled. He stopped. She didn’t. Then she did. He put his hands on her. They kissed. Rubbed each other. He was bursting, full of drink. They stopped. He went to the jacks, came back, and it never happened. That was it. That was all. He never told anyone. He looks. Cars coming up behind him. He waits, and crosses the station entrance.

She must have been going somewhere, her ma’s or somewhere. Her husband was driving. It was fine. He wasn’t interested in taking it further, and he didn’t think he’d have had the guts. Anyway, another of his friends, Davie, had separated from his missis a few years back and he was living back home with his mother, the poor fucker, because he couldn’t afford to do anything else. But he, Davie, went to a different pub on Sunday nights, where men and women like himself, unattached and out of practice, went.

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