…The list consisted of seven things which were eating away at my father, Walter O’Shea Jr., like dry rot; seven tasks or gestures that needed to be undertaken before he found himself supine on the icy slab at the mortuary. Death wasn’t something he’d talk about; he’d never even considered drawing up a will. But it wasn’t as if he didn’t know that death was lurking around the corner like a recidivist lying in wait for yet another vulnerable pensioner. It wasn’t a faraway destination like it had once been—a place on the map that he had never considered visiting; he knew he was closer to the damp soil than to the warmth of the womb.

…The casement windows of the loft opened out over the courtyard. I sat by one, looking at the quiet scene below lit by the moonlight as a gentle nighttime breeze blanketed my skin. I kissed the rim of a Berliner bottle, sucking a mouthful of its contents. Through the opened window of one of the apartments below I could hear a couple making love. The glow from my phone illuminated my face as I opened it and tried to call Mia. After two rings, she declined the call.
I checked an unread message from Paul.
He said, Did you go to a gangbang club yet? YOU NEED TO FUCK HER OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM.
I didn’t reply.
A few minutes later Ruby messaged me: Paul said you’re sick. You really need to let me know, Riley. I hope you’re okay. It’s been a bit of a shitshow in the office today. I’ll fill you in when you’re back online.
I replied, What if I don’t come back?
Ruby instantly sent a response: Are you serious?
I’m on a lot of painkillers, I texted.
You’ve seemed a little off, she said.
I hate my job, I said.
Ruby replied, I’m not sure that’s something you should say to your manager.
I’m a corporate whore, I typed.
Get some sleep, she said.
I was supposed to be a fine artist, I replied.
A few minutes later I texted, U there?“

…“She really is some gowl, though, yer one Stephanie. They’d do your head in, those Yanks. No wonder they’re always shooting each other. I’d fucking shoot them if I lived there. Shoot meself.”
Becker smiled and nodded, his upper lip kissed by the creamy head of the pint.
“And to ask us to hop on a work call between 8 and 10 at night on a Friday. Some fucking gowl and a half that one.”
Becker noticed that the incredulousness of Eoin’s current frame of mind had led to his pint being already more than half-empty.
“Sure look; once we get this project out of the way, hopefully we won’t have much come in from Stephanie for a while. We’ve a massive backlog of work; earlier in the traffic meeting Gillian almost burst into tears.”
“I wouldn’t want that job meself,” said Eoin. “Although this one is hardly very rewarding, is it? Every time I leave the office I want to deck someone. Anyway,” continued Eoin, slapping Becker on the shoulder. “Vincent. You and him are done then?”
Becker nodded his head.
“Have you seen those ads?” asked Becker.
“I have, my dear Francis. I have seen ‘those ads’, a lot of them, in fact. They tend to be everywhere, those ads.”
“Fuck off,” said Becker. “The ‘Aspire to Bliss’ ads. Have you seen them?”
“Sure how can you miss those? Eye sores.”
“I like them.”
“You would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Big feckin’ garish colours and type. Of course you like them. You love loud colours and big fonts.”
“I’m the Account Exec here; I know nothing about the pond you swim in.”
“Hence liking those horrific ads.”
“Whatever about the art direction. I’m talking about the line. They’re quite arresting, aren’t they? Even if you don’t like them. They’re striking.”
“I find them as appealing as eating a putrid tuna sambo from a hooker’s gee, Frankie. What are they about anyway? I refuse to look beyond the surface of that rot.”
“I don’t know. I only realised this morning there’s a QR code on them; scanned it did this morning but I haven’t had a chance to check.”
“Well whip it out there, boy.”
Becker’s eyes narrowed at Eoin’s teasing.
“You wish.”
“Sure you couldn’t handle a proper country lad.”
Becker laughed; he didn’t know one man more heterosexual than Eoin. This was, he believed, evidence of two things: One, Vincent’s all-men-are-homo-to-a-degree theory was wrong. Two, Eoin was incredibly comfortable in his sexuality; Becker was convinced by the old theory that those most hostile to Becker and His Kind were secretly part of the pack.
Both men placed elbows on table as they looked down at the phone situated between the pints; as the website loaded and an almost replica for the billboard greeted them, only beneath the bold text was a small, square button: Register.

The subject of my income was broached early on. Not because Caroline felt she needed to know. The fact I lived in a penthouse apartment, drove an Audi and without fail insisted on picking up the bill whenever we went out, often to expensive restaurants and bars, rendered the question as unavoidable as the Laffer curve (something Professor McKinley had for some reason spent three whole classes on). On the night we had met—as Paddy nasally sang ‘The Headmaster’s Ritual’ to the few dozen attendees in Whelan’s—she asked what most people would upon meeting someone:

   “So what do you do?”

   “This and that,” was my reply.

   “A mystery man,” she had said.

   “I took economics until recently,” I had offered.

   “Where?” she had said.

   “Trinity” I had said.

   “Nice,” was her monosyllabic response.

   “Nah,” was mine.

   “Do you work?” she had asked.

   “This and that,” I had said.

   We were strolling through Palmerston Park in Rathgar when she presented to me something that I did not, in my life, ever expect to be asked. It was September, and the leaves hadn’t yet given in to their imminent death; all around us the park clung stubbornly to its verdant green; the sun flickered through trees; the breezeless day was warm; dog-walkers passed us by wearing t-shirts, skirts, shorts. We had been together a few weeks, and already I was falling in love with her.

   “Are you a dealer?”

   “Why would you think that?”

   “You tick all the boxes.”

   “I see.”

   “I don’t care,” she had said, and I believed her. Whether she would care about me massaging my manhood on camera for sixty-year-old perverts was another thing. She knew I hadn’t inherited a large sum because she knew I didn’t come from money; she had been to my parent’s three-bedroom, terraced council-estate home. I was working-class to my core, despite my best efforts to skip that particular class.

   “You know crypto?” I had said, hating that I was lying to her so early in our relationship.

   “Bitcoin and that?” she had replied.

   “I was an early investor,” I had smiled.

   We hugged. Then, possessed by the incontrovertible swell of an inchoate relationship, we drove my Audi to the nearby Dublin mountains and frantically explored each other’s body in the back of the car. Like a blind man reading brail, I began to understand the idiosyncrasies of her body. Like a deaf man I felt the sonic vibrations of her being with my hands. I did all of this while I looked her in the eyes and sound was sucked from the space, and we kissed firmly. Back in my apartment, alone, I searched for jobs that I had no hope of getting due to my lack of experience and qualifications, because I had abandoned my economics degree and the potentialities that would come with it.

   Minutes later I bent over for a €200 tip.