Thirty-Three

There was a W.B. Yeats quote, “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy that sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” He thought of that while he watched Finn and Hollis walk down High Street with the package, looking happy and holding hands. Optimists, the Americans. Not the Irish, though. The Irish steeled themselves against the coming heartbreak, always aware that no matter how bright the day, it could still storm. It was the weather, his da used to say. It made fatalists of them all.

But Hollis and Finn were looking pleased with themselves. They’d beaten him to the package in a move that even he had to admit was a bit daring. But that was no matter. They were easy enough to find.

They’d been lovely on the train, sharing their crisps and chatting. They were as smart as their resumes suggested they would be, but kinder and friendlier than he’d expected.

He felt bad for them. He did, honestly.