Sitting in bed, he read a short story set in Ireland, and by the end of the first page he felt he’d read it sometime before. Shabbily dressed man, boats, Donal—the word jauntily. Big into adverbs the author was, he thought.
He stopped reading and began to write another section of his memoirs. The Ireland section. He too had been shabbily dressed upon arrival, so he added that. He wrote a little diversion about a leg injury sustained. Then the nightclub scene and the following days with the Spanish woman. Still shabbily dressed at the time, they kissed in St. Stephen’s Green. They kissed and argued. He pretended to be upset and so walked jauntily. He told her, I know I’m walking jauntily, but don’t take it personally. She liked his face, but not his jokes. It would never work. It didn’t. He stopped writing.
It was the last time he’d ever read a story about Ireland. It was the last time he’d ever read right before writing. It was the last time he’d ever read or write in bed—his back hurt. He lurched up and gingerly made his way to the medicine cabinet.