DIARY OF AN OXYGEN THIEF By Anonymous (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) (12 page)

             
God knows what else she took while I was transferring from the bathrobe to my clothes. But she had all the opportunity she needed. So, on the way to the elevator she walked ahead of me. She turned and said to me with those big blue headlights blaring.

             
“I look like shit.”

             
“You don't look that bad." I said,

I was trying not to let her know how just how beautiful she did look.

             
“
That
bad?” she quipped, obviously annoyed. I winced. She made a phone call from reception. She'd made one the night before, too. To let her parents know she wouldn't be home. We had coffee and I got a cab to Houston Station. And that was it, basically.

             
The second Christmas after my dad died I was at home. We did all right, Ma and me. My dad always loved Christmas so the empty chair really stuck out this time of the year. But I was optimistic. Well actually no, I was high. I had a gorgeous Irish girlfriend and my house was in the throes of being sold, which meant St Lacroix as a city of residence was nearing the end of its reign. I was a cheerful influence around the house that Christmas. My brother visited. I went to my AA meetings. Aisling even visited me in Kilkenny, and we had coffee in a new cafe. A converted bank. Ireland had changed so much. Nothing bothered me.

             
In hindsight, I think she wanted to invite me to a New Year's party, which one of her friends in Dublin held every year. She had come to Kilkenny to visit her uncle Tom and later had broken away to see me. This was two days before New Year's Eve. 

             
Maybe she had wanted to do on New Year's Eve what she ended up doing to me in the Cat & Mouse bar three months later. I have nothing to indicate that this was the case, except my notoriously faulty intuition/paranoia. The night we'd met in Dublin she had mentioned that a friend of hers was visiting from New York for the Christmas period and that she'd left him in a bar somewhere. When we first met and kissed that night there was a strong smell of alcohol so she must had a few drinks with him before meeting me. I of course, protested that he shouldn't be left alone, that we should invite him to join us. Her long hands wiped away the suggestion.

             
“He's too rude, you wouldn't like him.”

             
I believe I met him the following March, in the Cat & Mouse. Back in the Hibernian Café, I think the fact that I had already arranged to see some friends in London for New Year's Eve postponed my soul searing for a few more months. I booked a night in The Clarence Hotel for the night after New Year's Eve in the hope that I might repeat our night of sex only the week before. And I thought it would be a nice surprise for her since she'd worked there once as a hostess.

             
I called her from London on New Year’s Day after a disappointing night out with my AA friends. Her mother answered. She was very pleasant and asked who should she say was calling. Hoping that Aisling had mentioned me, I told her.

             
“Sorry who?”

             
My chest caramelized.

             
And when the girl of my dreams did finally fumble sleepily with the phone and say hello, I could hear the disappointment in her croaky voice.Then the “No's” began to emerge from the receiver in single file. No…she had to spend time with her parents; No…she saw them rarely enough at it was; No…maybe when we're both back in New York. No. No. No.

             
I didn't tell her I'd booked the hotel. Easy since I'm quite accomplished at hiding disappointment. At The Clarence Hotel, there's a hundred percent cancellation charge. Just in case you're ever thinking about it, that means you don't get your money back. My sister put it best.

             
“Sounds like an expensive wank.”

She has an enviable command of the English language. And at $600 a night she had a point. I did everything I could not to call Aisling until I got back to St LaCroix. I really didn't want to go back at all. She was now the only thing that kept me interested. I hated my big wonderful job. Hated isn't even the right word. It’s too active. It was more like apathy. I carelessly remarked to people whose tongues were loose that I was unhappy and would soon resign. Until then, I was afraid to even think such a thing in case they heard me. But now I wanted to be fired.

             
I would have welcomed it.They didn't fire me, though. Far from it. When I got back from the Christmas break they sent me to New York. It was obvious I didn't give a shit anymore and it was obvious that I wanted to be in New York. So they arranged it. Officially, I was to go and help out for a few weeks but I knew I was never coming back. I think they knew it, too.

             
Especially since the house-sale was set for February 2nd. Two months before a young couple had turned up on my doorstep.

             
“Hi there. We were just wonderin' if you'd be interested in sellin' your

            beautiful home.”

             
I had to resist hugging them.

Perfect people. Perfect words coming out of their mouths. After so long in advertising and so many late nights poring over stock photo books full of people just like this couple, I was beginning to think I was the only one who farted loud long sonorous notes and wanked in the bath. They just seemed to confirm that I shouldn’t have been in this house in the first place. It was as if I was giving it back to it’s rightful owners, in fact, it would not have seemed surreal to me if there had been fairy dust floating in the air around them.

             
An answered prayer is not something I'm used to. They must have passed by the house when the real estate sign had been up and waited. Clever. Because now that I had finished with that agent there was no commission to pay for either of us.

             
Escape to New York was no longer just a dream. I was to fly out on the Sunday night. I left two messages for Aisling, saying I'd be in New York the following weekend.

I intentionally didn't tell her that I was going to be there forever. I knew she'd keep

putting me off.

             
On the Sunday night, she left a message saying how she thought it was funny but she was going to be in Miami that Sunday. Hilarious. I knew I was in for a fucking roasting, I just could never have guessed how sophisticated the roasting would be. So on Tuesday night around 7pm, she called me in my Soho Grand hotel room where they give you a black goldfish of your own and where I envisaged fucking her not inconsiderable brains out later that night.

             
Not to be, my friends, not to be. This night began the unfurling of events that still make my mouth go dry. We agreed to meet in Fanelli’s, a cafe bar on Prince and Browne. I was there early and sat at a little table. Wearing a white jacket, she turned up looking tired. Mercifully, not too beautiful. 

             
By the way, I am aware that up to this point I sound like a jilted boyfriend trying to disguise his attempt at revenge (i.e. this whole story) as a literary event that you (the reader) are supposed to be taken in by. Maybe. But I think you'll agree that the antics of Aisling are worth recording under any pretense. Call it a warning to my brother romantics. Call it what you like. I know. Call it therapy for me (and you lot are eavesdropping).

             
Mind you, if she does recognize herself in these pages then that's fine, too. Of course, it could backfire and make her famous. Still, this occurrence would indicate a lot of these books will have been sold, which means I won't have done too badly either.

             
Still reading? Good.

             
Back to Fanelli’s, I said something about how nice the bar was. Coming from St Lacroix, I meant it, too. I said something about seeing photos of it somewhere and asked if it was famous. I'll never forget the cold look on her face as she said,

             
"You'll remember it after tonight."

             
I watched her to see if she meant something good by this comment. Didn’t seem so. I stuttered a little.

             
"What do you mean? Am I in for some big surprise tonight?"

             
I wanted to keep it ambiguous.

             
"Wait.”was all she said.

             
That was not what I'd expected, and it scared me. Wait? There must be a schedule of some kind. An order. A structure she had in her mind about how the evening should proceed. I swallowed hard like someone who’s realized he’s in over his head. Something not good was going to happen. But it wasn't necessarily happening right now. It would happen soon, and she knew what it was, and I didn't.

             
I couldn't leave yet because I had nothing to react to. She began asking me questions. Where were the Killallon Fitzpatrick offices? Did I ski? Did I work out in the gym? Did I ever go horse riding? Did I play chess? I answered no to all of these and felt like I was being interrogated. What the fuck was this? It made me feel very inactive. She said she'd love to play chess with me someday.

             
I said I'd thought that being beaten at chess was doubly humiliating for me because I fancied myself a bit of a strategist. Her eyes glinted. She was having fun. I couldn't help shifting uncomfortably in my chair. She sat back and watched me squirm.

             
She looked... Relaxed. Not so innocent now. More at ease with herself. Totally in control and I envied her this feeling, even though I didn't know what she was in control of. I would soon find out.

             
She looked around. Crossed her arms. Then a little mannered yawn.

             
Bored.

             
"I think I'll go home now," she said.

The significance of this didn't occur to me till some time later. But I did know her dismissal was significant. She let it sink in for me.

             
I must have managed to ask a question that would enable me to ascertain whether or not she intended to go home alone. I can't remember quite what was said, except that it felt like I was being murdered. (Awful drama queen, aren't I?).

             
There is a scene in Saving Private Ryan where a German soldier is killing an American soldier with a knife. The German is on top of the Yank. The GI begins to plead softly with the German saying something like, “Hold on, can't we talk about this?” To no avail. The German, almost apologetically, proceeds with the knife. His face belying the act he is committing. (In case you are wondering, I'm the American). So there I was being knifed, but with bandages applied immediately after. So much so I almost ended up apologizing to her. I was in the way, causing her beautiful brow to wrinkle. How could I? The thing was, if she'd told me to fuck off I'd have gone. But she didn't. She was enjoying herself too much.

             
It took a good hour to get her to say she wasn't looking for a relationship. Like I was a fucking shop steward trying to ascertain her ladyship's requirements. At least, I was able to make a clear judgment on what that meant. And what that meant mostly (if I'm honest) was, no sex. So my first reaction was, okay then, fuck you.

             
She said she'd love for me to go to exhibitions with her and she'd love to show me around New York and...I was already shaking my head. It dawned on me that she had used almost all the clichés except the big one, "friends." I did it for her: "You mean you want us to be friends?"

             
She wouldn't commit to this. Because it probably sounded too final and she knew I'd scamper. She tried to leave it open, saying, "I want to get to know you better." This implied maybe we could get going again in the future. My instincts were to get up, leave and call it a bad day. But she seemed to want to discuss it more, as if to hear my thoughts.

             
She said, "You look thoughtful" and "Are you angry?" to which I replied, "Do I? I'm sorry. Angry? No. Why should I be angry? I'm the one who came here." It was my decision. I sensed she was disappointed with my reaction, that she wanted me to be angry and I took the whole thing so well. Anyone would think she was telling me about her new curtains. At least, that's what I hoped. She seemed even more bored now that she wasn't getting the show of emotion she'd hoped for.

             
Then, without warning, a light blinded me. Flash. I couldn’t see, was in shock. The guy next to me turned grinning and said,

             
"Sorry. It just went off."

I nodded automatically and said,

             
"S'okay. No problem."

He exchanged glances with Aisling. She was smiling. So was I. So was he. I hadn't

even noticed that there had been a camera on the adjoining table, beside the salt and pepper shakers.

             
I looked at the man again. Something was wrong. I didn't know what. He seemed