Free Gone by Martin Roper

in front of her. Fuck it—At least she’s cutting me slack on deadlines.
    I miss you.
    Is Manhattan cold? Tell me where you eat. Let me live it with you a little. Kiss. Need a real one though.
    Urs-ula
    Dearest Ursula,
    New York?

    It’s snowing.
    S.
    My anger at that time, anger fueled by her instinct for knowing. Phoning her to reassure her. Angry that she sensed what I was going to do before I even did it. Women know these things, Isobela had said. Women know these things. I hate that women-power shit. But then another letter, softer, on yellow lined paper:
    She was arrested. She was running down St. Kevin’s Avenue, naked except for her white tights, screaming. Where’s my pussy? Where’s my pussy? The dog was missing too. And the German silverware Gran gave her as a wedding present. No sign of her beau. She had drunk three bottles of Bailey’s. No wonder she’s putting on weight. There’s no point in telling Daddy. He’ll only gloat.
    I can’t believe you still have all that snow. Even though it sounds awful, it must be fun. Anything would be a change from this rain. Cecil and his team haven’t showed up since last Tuesday. Everything they say about builders is not true. They’re much worse.
    I’m doing an article on fidelity (read infidelity). About our parents’ generation. The men were so nice. They talked to me as if I was an understanding daughter. They disgusted me with their stories of love. This face of mine: Empathy personified you called it once. It’s a good article. Punchy and moving. The kind Fiona likes. Trevor liked it, she told me. Who’s Trevor, says I. Trevor owns the paper, says she, searching my face for journalistic prowess. I only know him as Mr. Plausible. It’s in Sunday’s. Veronica has an article below mine—The Irish Illiteratti. 1500 words on the new wave of publishing in this country. Between herself and myself we make for a thrilling page. You want to see her since they offered her a contract—flouncing into the office with the hair bobbing off her shoulders. If only she kept her crotch as clean as her golden locks.
    Medbh’s baby is due in two weeks. Send her something nice. I don’t think Brefini wanted this right now.
    Keep biting the Apple.
    Ursula
    PS: You shouldn’t keep buying the paper. Although you’re right—it’s worth five dollars to read me.
    PPS: It’s wicked to be alone in our bed although there is a masochistic pleasure in the wait for you. I lie on my hand and imagine it’s yours. You’ve a wonderful hand. The pleasure it gives. But you know that. I can feed on the waiting. Let’s work something out. We can, I’m sure. Daisies are my favourite flowers. It’s the size of them. They understand each others tininess. Nothing, not even a daisy, is as beautiful as the love we once had. Kiss.

Leaving Bath Avenue
    I go back to Dublin the day before the auction. I am even more determined to leave. Already I am feeling like a foreigner. My heart sinks when I arrive at the house. It does look beautiful. I have no inkling how to broach ending.
    We are in the garden and planting sunflowers because Ruth likes them so much. Ursula is clearing the bindweed that is choking the roses. There is a thud and the sound of running. A dead cat lies on the grass. She doesn’t hear it. I lift the animal and throw it back over the wall before she turns. We go to a film that evening. When we get back the children are in the front garden ripping up the flowers. I keep driving and we go to the Beggars Bush and sit in silence, drinking. It is a public admission of defeat. I am full of rage at the neighbours—not the ones who cause trouble, the ones who don’t—the friendly neighbours who know what’s happening and do nothing to help. I despise these people who call themselves friends. Grand morning. Sure you have it looking lovely. If there’s anything