“Richie, what about
‘When I die, Dublin
will be written in my heart’?”
I can’t shake the quote.
“God, I hope by the time I die,
a lot of other places
are written in my heart.
France. Bali. The Amazon rain forest.
I’m trying to live, not die, Richie.”
“Me too,” he says.
“Good! Do you believe we’re all marked
by the place we’re born?
That these streets and old buildings
will always stick with us
like a wad of gum
that’s lost its flavor?
Or are you trying to teach me
about James Joyce?”
We’re both silent as an old man
in a beret enters the lobby
and pushes the elevator button.
He smiles at us, revealing a gap
between his teeth.
In that moment, I picture him as a young boy.
I smile back.
Finally, the elevator comes and he hobbles inside.
“You gave that guy a reason
to keep on living,” says Richie
with a lilt in his voice.
“I don’t know much about Joyce,” I say,
“except the famous Molly Bloom speech:
‘… yes and his heart was going like mad
and yes I said yes I will Yes.’”
“Likely the sexiest lines ever written,”
says Richie.
How am I supposed to respond?
As long as we’re just pals it doesn’t matter.
But now, the way his eyes
land on me stirs me up.
Is he flirting?
Do I want him to flirt?
Or am I simply confusing him
with what Molly Bloom has made me feel?
When I look again, he’s changed back
into my comfortable-as-a-worn-slipper
neighbor and pal. And I’m glad.