Mischief in Ireland: Brief heat. No harm meant.
Episode 1
“I don’t do forever.” Diarmuid buttons his shirt. “I do true. But you knew that.”
“You’re just back from Crete.” Aoife lies in the bed, watching him as if she might catch a flicker of doubt. “You could try staying still.”
“Then I wouldn’t be honest.” He pulls on his jacket.
“So this is it?”
“Yes,” he says.
“You don’t even look sorry.”
Diarmuid holds her gaze, then leans over and kisses her on the cheek. He can’t apologise for what he never promised.
Out in the street, his phone buzzes.
Conor: You about?
Doyles smells of stout, wood polish, and fried food. Conor is at the bar, hunched over an untouched Guinness. He’s staring at the mirror behind the taps like it might offer a different version of himself.
“You look like you’ve just been audited,” Diarmuid says, sliding into the stool beside him. He taps on the bar and orders.
“She’s gone?”
“Seven years,” Conor says. “You’d think I’d have noticed I was optional.”
Diarmuid raises his glass. “Here’s to surviving Tuesday. Drink. Your nervous system needs direction.”
Conor snorts softly, clinks glasses, takes a sip.
“She said she felt alone,” Conor adds after a moment. “While we were in the same room.”
“Rooms can be misleading.”
Silence settles between them.
“Want to go somewhere livelier?” Diarmuid asks.
“No.”
So they stay.
Diarmuid scans the room and the quiet midweek trade. Conor studies the condensation sliding down his glass like it might provide some answers.
The bartender is irritated and snaps the tea towel with more force than necessary.
“Long day?” Diarmuid asks.
She doesn’t look up. “Long week.”
“What’s up?”
A few colourful details later, she explains she gave up a gig to cover this shift for her cousin.
“You’ve the fiddle with you?” asks Diarmuid.
She jerks her chin toward the shelf under the bar.
“Grand. When you finish, we’ll sort it.”
She dismisses him with an eye roll, but the towel lands softer next time.
Further down the bar, an Australian backpacker is frowning at his phone.
“Do the Dublin buses actually run?” he asks no one in particular.
Diarmuid leans over and translates the timetable into something useable.
“You’ll get there,” he says. “Just not efficiently.”
The Australian laughs and buys them a pint.
A woman in a sharp navy coat sits alone nursing a gin. Diarmuid catches her eye, inclines his head slightly.
Ten minutes later, she’s correcting the Australian’s pronunciation of ‘Dun Laoghaire’, and the circle has widened. Conor listens more than he speaks, but he’s sitting upright now.
“My first night out alone. Since the divorce,” she says. “Is this how people start over? With bad gin and strangers.”
“Cheers.” Diarmuid nudges a static Conor. “C’mon, man.”
Around nine, a street musician drifts in with his guitar. “Too wet and cold for busking,” he mutters.
Conor starts talking with the divorcee. The Aussie buys crisps for everyone. The bartender clocks off and stands uncertainly, the fiddle case under her arm.
Diarmuid grins, spreads his arms wide. “Your audience.”
She hesitates, then opens the case.
The first tune is tentative. The second isn’t. The busker joins in. The backpacker claps wildly offbeat. The divorcee laughs with her whole face.
The atmosphere shifts. Conversations pause, then restart in a different register. A few people start dancing.
Conor watches the room change around Diarmuid
“How do you do that?” he asks
“Do what?”
“Make things feel…” Conor searches for the right word.
“You just take the moment while it’s warm.”
Close to ten, a woman in a fluro safety vest walks in, fatigue and stress shadowing her face. She spots Diarmuid.
“You,” she says, half accusation, half relief.
He recognises her from a shift he worked before he went to Crete.
“Need work?”
“You must be desperate,” says Conor.
“Depends,” Diarmuid says. “Is it boring?”
She takes in the musicians, and the strangers mid-conversation.
“We’re setting up a public event, for the day after tomorrow. Badly behind schedule.” Bleary eyes search his.
“One day?” he asks.
“One.”
“Grand.” Diarmuid stands, offering his hand. They dance, and the woman in the safety vest finds herself laughing before she remembers she’s exhausted.
Episode 2
They’re nearly done.
Close enough that the crew start saying, “We might actually make it.”
Diarmuid has been shifting ladders and cable runs and boxes since early morning, running on protein bars and bad coffee. Grainne’s been holding the crew together with tired smiles and thin encouragement.
“Last push,” she says.
That’s when it happens.
The mural runs the length of the foyer. A local artist’s work, it contains weeks of layering and detail: winter light over Dublin rooftops, with little stories threaded throughout. Council’s pride and joy, and the backdrop of tomorrow’s press conference and official photos.
It’s the one thing the crew’s been careful around, like there’s a soft fence you can’t see.
Someone turns too fast with a bundle of drop cloths. Their elbow clips the leg of the scaffolding. On the plank sits a tin of white paint.
It shouldn’t be there. But it is.
The tin tips. For a second it teeters like a slow-mo scene in a cartoon. Then it pours.
White paint slides down the colourful mural in a thick, obscene ribbon, bang smack in the middle. It hits the skirting board and puddles on the floor.
Gasps and groans rebound around the room.
Someone whispers, horrified. “Why was that even there?”
Grainne closes her eyes like she’s trying to reverse time with sheer will.
A young crew member makes a helpless move forward with a rag. Diarmuid steps in front of him.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean don’t?” the kid blurts. “We have to—”
“If you rub that, you’ll grind it in,” Diarmuid says. “We don’t want to make it worse.”
“That wall took weeks.” Grainne’s voice comes out strangled.
Someone swears. Someone else laughs; not because it’s funny, just the body misfiring under stress.
Grainne slumps onto the floor. “Handover is at midnight. It was meant to be at five, but I got it pushed out.” She stares at the mural. “Councillors. Photos. Speeches. The artist—”
The crew start talking at once.
“She’s going to lose her mind.”
“We can repaint—”
“No time.”
“Cover it with a drape—”
“They’ll notice.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“We’re done for.”
“Reckon we’ll still get paid?”
“Right.” Diarmuid crouches by the puddle at the baseboard. “First: stop breathing on it. Second: nobody touches the art with a rag.”
“And third?” Grainne asks.
“Working on that.”
The tin lies on its side, still glugging paint onto the floor. Diarmuid picks it up and snaps the lid back on.
“Water-based?” He wipes the label with a rag and reads.
“Grand,” he says. “We’ve got minutes, not seconds.”
“11:08.” Grainne announces the time.
“We lift it.”
“Lift it?” Grainne snaps. “It’s not a sticker.”
“To be sure. But it’s sitting on top.”
He looks around at the blank faces.
“Clean plastic. Bin liners. Anything smooth. Now!”
The first sheet arrives—heavy duty, torn from the packing.
He presses it gently against the thickest part of the spill and peels it away. A layer of white comes off with it.
It isn’t clean or perfect, but there’s less paint on the mural.
Grainne drops beside him. They work in patches. Press. Lift. Press. Lift.
It’s ugly. It’s slow. It’s terrifying.
By 11:25 the worst of the thickness is gone. What’s left is a smeared haze cutting through rooftops and faces.
“We can’t repaint that,” someone says.
“No,” Diarmuid agrees. “But we can soften it.”
“How?”
“Warm water. Soft sponges. Pat, don’t drag. By thinning the top layer, not scrubbing the wall.”
The crew move like surgeons who learned from YouTube. By 11:40 the mural is scarred, not destroyed.
Grainne leans back on her heels. “She’ll see it.”
“Of course she will,” Diarmuid replies.
He studies the wall. “Right. Now we make it intentional.”
“What?” A chorus shoots back.
“Snow.” He gestures at the streak. “Dublin in winter. It already looks like weather. We extend it, stop it looking like an accident.”
“That’s insane.”
“So was leaving a tin on the scaffold.”
Dead silence.
“It could work,” says the quiet guy who’s been laying cable all day.
They echo what the spill began, softening rooftops, catching edges, brightening window ledges. Just enough to turn damage into atmosphere.
It isn’t the artist’s work. But it isn’t a ruin either.
By 11:58, it’s done.
Grainne stands with her hands on her hips. “If she kills us—”
“She won’t.” Diarmuid smiles.
“How do you know?”
He looks at the altered mural. “Because it’s better.”
They switch off the lights.
“Come on,” he says.
“Where?” Grainne squints at him in the dark street.
“Chips. The best in the city. You look like a woman who’s forgotten food is real.”
“I’m going home.”
“You can go home after we eat.” He takes her hand. “Or not.”
Episode 3
Grainne’s phone vibrates on the bedside table.
“Leave it,” Diarmuid mutters into the pillow.
She ignores him.
“Look at this.” She squints at the screen.
“It’s too early.” He buries his head under the covers.
“We’ve all been invited to the after-party tonight. The whole crew. As a thank you from Council.”
No response.
“Oh no.” Grainne pulls the blankets off his face. “The artist will be there.”
“Grand.” He takes the phone, tosses it back onto the table, and pulls her under the sheets.
When Diarmuid arrives at the community centre that night, security checks his pass like it might confess, and asks for ID.
“You’re late.” Grainne catches his arm and leads him to where the crew are standing awkwardly in a corner. “I was worried you bailed.”
“Thought about it.” He grins. “You look great. That dress suits you.”
“Thanks.” She smiles.
He glances at the mural. The added snow looks too deliberate. The artist stands beside the wall with two councillors. As they pass, she raises a hand.
“Stop,” she says. “I want to talk to you.”
Grainne slows, then drifts sideways, suddenly fascinated by signage.
“You touched my work,” the artist says.
“Technically,” Diarmuid replies, “gravity did.”
She folds her arms. “You altered it.”
“You’d have loved the white strip from top to bottom.” He shrugs. “Wide enough to lose yourself in.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“I’ll remember that next time.”
“There won’t be a next time. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Sure, blame the crew for the accident you caused. You know, leaving that tin of paint there until the eleventh hour.” He steps closer. “Whatever you do, don’t thank them for saving it.”
Her eyes flash. For a second, he thinks she might slap him.
He turns away.
“We’re not finished yet.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he flashes a grin over his shoulder.
Grainne reappears. “That went well.”
“Thanks for deserting me.”
“Sorry. Conflict just isn’t my thing.”
“Time for a drink. Seeing that it’s free.”
The crew hang out near the back, half proud, half unsure if they’re meant to be here at all.
Then the whispers start. A ripple forms at reception and floats around the room. It flits amongst the wine glasses, nods at the evening suits, and bows at the sparkly dresses.
The donation box, the one for the winter homeless fund, has disappeared from the welcome table.
Voices drop. Voices raise.
“It was full,” someone mutters.
Glances dart sideways, skipping the councillors and the sponsors, until they land on the crew in the corner.
“They were near it earlier.”
“Check their pockets.”
The artist looks straight at Diarmuid.
Security form a huddle with the mayor. He glances at the crew, a decision forming on his face.
Diarmuid steps forward. “If you’re accusing us, say it out loud.”
“Mind your tone,” a councillor says sharply.
“If you want to search us, start with me.” Diarmuid points at the crowd. “Then do the room.”
Episode 4
He shrugs off his jacket and hands it over without ceremony. A security guard pats him down.
“Just so we’re clear,” Diarmuid says as the guard checks his jean pockets. “If anything feels tense, that’s your imagination, not guilt.”
Some of the crew titter. The guard turns red and moves to his boots.
“Now for the rest of them,” a councillor orders.
“No.” Diarmuid raises one hand as he reaches for his jacket with the other. “The rest of the room first. That’s the deal.”
Wine glasses pause mid-sip.
“You can’t be serious,” someone mutters.
“Deadly serious,” replies Diarmuid.
“Preposterous,” exclaims another.
The air turns nasty.
A polite cough comes from a doorway. “Ah…excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.”
Heads turn.
A supervisor walks slowly through the crowd towards the mayor, holding the donation box under his arm and a phone to his ear.
He ends the call. “A staffer noticed the box was full and moved it to the office for safekeeping. Didn’t get a chance to let anyone know. He was called home on an emergency. A sick baby.”
The room does a quick social pivot, relief dressed up as indignation. Laughter echoes, too loud to be humble.
“I’m out of here.” Diarmuid says to the crew.
Grainne is already moving.
“Sorry lads…lassie,” the supervisor says in a low voice.
Diarmuid nods and keeps walking. Outside, the cold draws fog from his breath.
A light touch on his arm makes him turn.
“You were right about one thing.” The artist has followed him.
“Just one?” Diarmuid laughs.
Grainne stops. She looks at him once. He meets her eyes. Her face is still, but proud, like she’s already decided to not fight for him. He watches her go.
The artist’s hand tightens, rings flashing as they catch the streetlight. Her sharp eyes simmer with heat. He knows that look, and what it means. The night isn’t over yet.
“I’m still—”
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. You have a name?”
“You mean you actually don’t know who I am?” She snorts.
“No.
“Nessa—”
“First name’s good enough.”
“Where are we going?” She shivers. “I never walk in these lanes. Especially at night.”
“This is the real Dublin. Not the picture-postcard version of your mural.”
They pass a chipper window, the fluorescent light flattening everyone inside equally—security guards, students, a woman holding high heels in her hand. The smell of vinegar drifts out the open door.
He points at the fryer man who’s moving with the rhythm of someone who’s done this a thousand times. “It’s not only dancers who know choreography.”
She groans. “I know a great wine bar—”
“We’re not done yet.”
They cross the river. He stops where the bridge’s shadow cuts the water. The Liffey is dark here, the reflections broken.
“You don’t get this in your pretty winter light,” he says, almost to himself.
“What gives you the right to decide what my city’s like?”
He laughs. “Ditto.” And moves on.
The late bus pulls in. A woman leans against the glass, dozing. The doors fold open with a sigh. People climb out, exhausted after a long day.
“There’s the threads you forgot in your mural,” he says quietly.
“Enough. None of this makes what you did right.”
“Can you capture this with paint?” He holds a finger to his lips. “Listen.”
A street sweeper hums along the kerb, gathering the night into a narrow line. A taxi idles while two lads argue, then break out into laughter. Somewhere a door slams. Further away someone sings one line of a song, then stops.
“There’s more.” He turns down a dark alley.
“I—”
“Look.” He stops in front of a building covered in graffiti.
“Well, this is glamourous,” she mocks.
“That’s talent.” He pulls out his phone and flicks the torch on. “Laid down fast before the rain can take it. Or the cops arrive.”
“Do you mean—”
“Isn’t art about expression, not just aesthetics?”
The look on her face says she doubts he knows the meaning of the word. “At least mine is legal.”
“Over there.” He points to an archway covered with posters, layer over layer. Faded, torn, forgotten—gigs, protests, lost dogs, poetry readings all succumbing to Dublin’s weather. He nudges her gently, elbow to elbow. “And you thought a light smattering of snow was an offence.”
“That wasn’t it and you know it.” Her voice is harsh. “I realise you wanted to protect your crew mates, just like the donation box, but—”
“That’s it,” he says.
“What?”
“Some of the bits you ignored.”
“You think the city is better broken.” Nessa rubs her arms for warmth. “Gritty and harsh.”
“No. It’s better alive. And itself.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, then stops.
“My art only works because I’m a perfectionist.” She thrusts her hands into the pockets of her coat. “That’s why the paint was still there.”
He lets that sit for a moment.
“About that wine bar.” He smiles. “Is it far?”
Episode 5
Diarmuid wakes to grey light and an overheated room.
Nessa is in the kitchen. Drawers open and close with the steady rhythm of someone who loves mornings. He lies there, debating whether to fall back to sleep.
“I’ve got an appointment,” she calls.
When he walks out, she is in the hallway pulling on long boots. “Last night was great…well the last part anyway.” She pecks him on the cheek. “Leave your number on the table. Gotta run.”
Diarmuid stands in the living room, taking in the clean lines and controlled colours. He shrugs as though taking off a stranger’s cloak.
“Coffee,” he says to the squared cushions on the couch.
The café is packed. Every coat in Dublin seems to be here. They’re draped on chair backs, piled on windowsills, hanging damp and heavy off hooks that weren’t designed for the weight.
He makes a beeline for the only empty table—a prized window seat in the corner.
“That’s mine,” a voice demands as he slides in.
He looks up. A woman sits down so fast the cushion bounces.
“Morning to you too.”
“This is my table.” She pulls a laptop out of her bag, “I come here every Friday.”
“It was free.”
She stares. “Aren’t you moving?”
“No.”
A waiter comes over. “You can share or one of you can stand. We’re wedged.” He waves an arm around the overflowing room.
She exhales, hard. “Fine. No talking. I’ve work to do.”
The waiter takes their orders. She taps the keys as though on a mission to save the planet by noon. The bell tinkles on the door, again and again. A queue forms and snakes between the tables.
“Is this the place?” someone asks.
“Are you the hot whiskey-spiced coffee café?”
The barista moans. “We don’t—”
More bodies press inside.
“We’ve come from Rathmines,” a man raises his voice.
A guy near the counter reads aloud from his phone. “Best hot whiskey-spiced coffee in Dublin. Not on the menu. Ask for it.”
The barista shakes his head. “We don’t sell whiskey before eleven.”
“Grand, we’ll wait.”
“Is it real whiskey, or just that syrupy shite?”
“Real is what I read. Reason it’s off menu.”
“What’s happening?” the woman across from Diarmuid mutters.
“Someone with a phone,” he says cheerfully, “found a thing that was working grand and decided it needed an audience.”
A second line forms, snaking the other way.
“We’re not animals to be penned in,” a woman complains.
Someone offers to swap their toastie for a seat. The waiters struggle and several near spills are narrowly avoided.
“This is ridiculous,” the woman snaps. “I have a deadline.”
“If you’re after silence,” he offers, “there’s a building full of books down the road.”
Two girls arrive breathless and flustered.
“This is it,” one says, looking up from her phone. “This cafe has the only seat in Dublin where your life can improve.”
“And this is the table,” says the second. “Move on up.”
The girls squeeze in at one end, forcing Diarmuid to move close to the woman. She curses in exceptionally well-rounded Gaelic.
A man leans over. “Sorry now, are you nearly done?”
“With existing?” Diarmuid asks.
“With the seat.”
“No.” She growls at the man. “And you two. Go.” Bright red nails point at the girls.
“They stay.” The waiter brings their coffees. “There’s room enough.”
“You’ve got to be joking.” Her eyes blaze.
“If he was, would you laugh?” Diarmuid asks.
Her fingers hover above the keyboard. “This is confidential.” She snaps. “You could at least move over.”
“I’m illiterate.” He winks. “Besides, they’re a bit young for me.” He nods at the girls who are taking selfies and posting at speed.
They giggle and invite him for a photo. He obliges.
She snaps the laptop shut. “I can’t work like this.”
Conversations bleed into each other, the coffee machine hisses in bursts, patrons grumble, waiters groan. People queuing outside in the drizzle lean against the glass, edging for whatever shelter they can get.
“This city can’t tell the difference between good and exclusive.”
“No,” he says lightly. “People just want to feel they’re in on something.”
“Are you always so philosophical this early in the day?”
“I’m at my best after dark.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Frequently.”
He leans back and takes a slow sip.
She sits forward, furious at the chaos and the spectacle. “You love the noise because it means no one expects anything of you.”
“You decided that fast.” His laugh rolls out of him, deep and unbothered.
Episode 6
“I didn’t expect to see you at an event like this.”
Diarmuid turns. It’s the lady from the café of yesterday.
“Looks can mislead. I know a poet who’s a champion boxer.”
Her lips tighten like she’s tasted something off. He returns to reading the small card next to a painting that is mostly white, like a sky after a storm has scrubbed it raw.
“Opening nights at this gallery are invitation only. Who did you scam for a ticket?”
He straightens and nods toward Nessa, who’s holding court in the centre of the room. Around her hums the scent of money pretending to appreciate art, clasping wine glasses tipped at considerate angles.
“The famous artist!” She notices Nessa watching them. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.”
The curator taps a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen—”
Diarmuid tunes out at the mention of synergy. He watches the heads nodding as though they personally approve of every syllable.
Mid-toast, a faint beep sounds overhead. Diarmuid looks at the ceiling. No one else takes any notice. Glasses rise. Then the shrill screaming of the fire alarm detonates. People cover their ears and peer around, trying to decide if the danger is real.
There’s no smoke or flames. But the alarm keeps screaming. Security moves in, brisk and unapologetic.
“Everyone out. Now. This is not a drill. No running, just walk calmly to the exit.”
“What about our coats?” Someone yells above the fracas. “It’s freezing outside.”
“I repeat. This is not a drill. Go straight to the exit.”
The door to the cloak room is slammed shut and a burly guard stands in front.
“I’m not leaving my art to burn,” someone cries.
Artists lunge for canvasses with the desperate tenderness of parents grabbing children. A sculptor attempts to lift a piece bolted to the floor, while a man in a linen suit hides a bottle of champagne under his jacket.
“Out means out.”
“It’s mixed media—”
“Leave it. Insurance will cover it.”
“That’s not the point.”
Several succeed in ripping their art off the walls and join the jostling elbows and mad scrambling at the exit. Nessa is at the front, grimly holding her large panoramic piece in oil, Breathing Room. She’s carrying it horizontally and can’t turn it sideways in the crush. The canvas becomes a log, jamming the exit. No one can move.
People yell while the alarm keeps shrieking.
Diarmuid pushes through, lifts the painting out of Nessa’s hands and raises it above his head. People scuttle underneath. When the crowd thins, he drops the canvas to the side, where it lands face down on the floor.
He takes hold of Nessa’s arm and pulls her outside, down the steps and across to the assembly point in the carpark. When they stop, she turns on him in fury.
“How dare you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Around them, jewels glitter in the streetlights, thin dresses expose goosebumps, high heels trip over cracks in the cement in the dark, gallery staff clutch lists, and caterers hold trays like relics.
Everyone stands in the same drizzle, bewildered and cold; breath steaming the same from every mouth. Sequins and security badges and clipboards drip in the same rain.
Diarmuid loses control. His shoulders shake and laughter rolls out in bursts, low and round.
Nessa raises her hand to slap him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The lady from the café steps between them.
His laughter breaks again, louder this time, before he drags in a breath and steadies himself.
Sirens blare and red lights flash as fire trucks arrive.
He inhales deeply, regains composure. The two women stare, shivering.
An announcement rings out. The all clear is given. Someone was vaping in the toilet and triggered the alarm.
Diarmuid takes off his jacket, looks from one to the other, and offers it to the lady from the café.
“The exit beat the opening.”
He salutes the night and walks away.
Episode 7
Diarmuid leans against a utility table, watching his clothes revolve behind the scratched glass. The laundromat door swings open.
“You’ve got to be joking.” Grainne stops on the doorstep.
“Close the door, please, luv,” an older woman calls from the corner. “You’re letting in a draft.”
Grainne dumps a canvas bag onto the table.
Diarmuid looks around the rows of humming machines. “I like a good laugh, but I’m missing the punchline.”
Before Grainne can answer, Nessa strides in with a garment bag slung over her shoulder. She sees Diarmuid, then Grainne. Her eyes narrow.
“This is unlikely.”
The door opens again and the café lady walks in, shaking rain from her sleeves. She clocks the room in one sweep—Diarmuid, two women, three machines in spin cycle.
Diarmuid pushes off from the table, a slow grin forming. “What are the chances?” He glances from one to the other. “I swear I didn’t send out invitations.”
The washer behind him thuds as water sloshes in thick circles.
Grainne folds her arms. “This is ridiculous.”
Nessa sets her bag down with precision. “You don’t own public space.”
“I’m not claiming ownership. Just coincidence.”
The café lady places her washing basket on an orange plastic chair. “If this is a performance, it’s under-rehearsed.”
“I feel very popular.”
Three heads swivel.
“Well, well, laddie, what have you been up to,” the older woman says, not looking up from her knitting.
“Don’t,” Nessa says.
“Don’t what?” he asks.
“Enjoy this.”
He fails immediately and bursts out laughing.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Nessa says to Grainne.
“Not that it’s any of your business. I quit,” Grainne huffs. “Shouldn’t you be playing with watercolours?”
Nessa turns to the café lady. “Do you have a name?”
“Eimear.” She crosses her arms. “I always do my laundry on a Wednesday.”
“You didn’t even know this one’s name,” the older woman says to Diarmuid.
He throws out his hands in mock defence.
The woman sits beneath a faded poster about stain removal. “If you three are going to fight over him, at least separate the whites from the colours.”
The women groan. Diarmuid laughs.
Grainne glances at her bag of dirty clothes. “I did mix them once,” she mutters.
“Aye luv,” the woman says. “That’s how you learn.”
“We are not fighting over him,” Nessa says sharply.
“Of course not,” the woman replies. “Why would three intelligent women compete over a man who doesn’t even bring fabric softener.”
Diarmuid checks his pockets. “I come equipped.”
Eimear chuckles. Grainne and Nessa shoot her a look, but it’s less hostile than before.
“So.” Eimear glances between them. “What exactly is your interest?”
“He’s a good dancer. And loyal,” Grainne says. “But he pivots too easily.”
“He’s aesthetic. And philosophically unique,” Nessa says. “But he throws paintings.”
“You?” Grainne and Nessa ask together.
“He lent me his jacket when I was shivering in the rain, and he sees the funny side in everything.” Eimear shrugs. “But he told me to work in a library. And you can’t drink coffee there.”
There’s a pause.
Grainne and Nessa glance at Eimear. The corner of Grainne’s mouth twitches. Nessa exhales, almost amused.
They look at him.
“Too restless.”
“Too wild.”
“Too free.”
The older woman clicks her tongue. “Ah, leave him. He’s like a sock without its partner. Grand for a while, but you wouldn’t build a wardrobe around him.”
Eimear snorts. Nessa bends to inspect the knit pattern. Grainne squeezes the woman’s arm in appreciation.
“That’s harsh.” Diarmuid winks.
“See that?” he adds. “Universal appeal.”
“Temporary appeal,” Nessa corrects.
“Short-term,” Grainne says.
“Nothing’s permanent.” Eimear shrugs. “Not even starch,”
A dryer beeps. The woman stands, unloads a pile of linen, folds them neatly before stacking them in her carry-all.
“Right so.” The woman moves toward the door. “Mind yourselves.”
Grainne moves her bag and perches on the edge of the table. Eimear lifts her basket off the chair and sits. Nessa leans in to read a detergent label.
They’re discussing brands now. Shrinkage disasters and ruined jumpers. Laughter bubbles, unguarded.
Diarmuid watches, amused. The cycle on his machine finishes with a satisfied beep.
“I’ll take that as my cue.” He tosses the wet clothes into his pack. “Enjoy the spin cycle, ladies. Mind the rinse.”
He chuckles, salutes with two fingers, and pushes open the door. A woman steps in dragging a wheelie suitcase. He moves aside. She nods.
Outside in the drizzle, he tugs up his collar.
Behind him, through the misty window, the women talk like they’ve known each other longer than ten minutes. Eimear demonstrates something with her hands. Grainne shakes her head. Nessa laughs—genuinely, not curated.
Diarmuid walks on.