Fionn listened to the flush from across the kitchen and went about making his breakfast, feeling around in the cupboard above the sink for- there’s the bowl and there’s the cereal. The bowl had little red flecks of pasta sauce on the outer curve that were only preserved in the washing of it by the fact that this house is a shithole.
Darragh emerged from the bathroom. Fionn poured out some bran flakes. Darragh’s coffee pot stood cold and empty on the windowsill by the olive oil. He walked through to the living room listening to the fridge door open and close.
The sky was grey and there was a speckle of rain sprayed along the top half of the living room window. On the table was last week’s Irish Times open on the sudokus. Looks like a bomb hit them. Damp laundry covered the radiators and the TV was on mute when Darragh turned it on. Sealed smell. He moved his rucksack off the couch, paused, and opened the speckled window ajar.
The kitchen speaks: Eh, those clothes are still drying, so while it’s raining- with the wet air outside could you leave the window closed just for the time being.
Darragh closed the window again.
-Grand, yeah.
Fionn passed through the living room, bowl in hand, to his room.
Hearing Fionn’s door close and the footsteps settle upstairs, Darragh entered the kitchen. The bowl was in the drying rack, and the spoon head-up in the cutlery section. Maximum dry: no suds, dry-in-five-to-ten minutes, better. Some man. The clock read midday and the rain became heavier. Lecture at two. Gentle summer, take your time. Hob not clean enough to look at, let alone eat off. Not a concern. The coffee pot took on its weight and he set it over the low heat.
Darragh put on his headphones and placed a nicotine pouch behind his upper lip. Wede Harer Guzo- Hailu Mergia. The clouds broke and the rain came down in full force. Little faded denim patches floating in a bath. Day begins.
He took out a chopping board, wok, pot, and the sharp knife. In the fridge there were some last remaining mushrooms and a green bell pepper; the onion, garlic, and spices in the cupboard. He laid them all out: mushrooms and garlic on the right, onion and bell pepper on the counter. Roll call. He took out the rice, chickpeas, coconut milk, and chopped tomatoes from the back of his cupboard and added them to the counter.
He closed the door to the living room and opened the backdoor by the bathroom. The backyard was all cement and glimpses of the neighbours’ washing. Underwear, bras, a beanie. Who washes hats. The rain mixed with the song and the nicotine brought out the blue. Fionn’s window was closed past the living room window. Ten past twelve. The air was clean.
The onion was stripped and its shell crumpled and thrown in the compost. He halved it on the chopping board, left side, and diced it imperfectly. The garlic were stripped the same and he had their navel ends removed. Roll call. He poured the rice into the pot, filled it with tap water, and placed it on the hob on full heat. Basmati is washed? But the ball’s already rolling. He poured out the chickpea water as his coffee boiled and poured half the container into the wok with some olive oil on a low heat. He added the onions and poured half the coffee into a small cup, leaving the pot lid open to let the rest of the coffee cool. Lots to keep track of. And the sun still hanging on. He tossed the wok and added cumin, turmeric, black pepper, and paprika. He finished his first cup of coffee and chopped the pepper and mushrooms.
As Darragh poured his second cup of coffee, the wok hissed with the rain and the bubbling rice. The garlic was ready on the chopping board in little pieces. He stepped outside and felt a pang in his empty stomach. Running on beans. Rain-sweet air glided through his lungs. Little touches on his eyelids, dripping down his cheek. Lecture at two. Weekend begins then.
-Could you make sure to lock the door when you’re done, I’m heading out for the day.
Darragh turned to the door.
-I can, yeah. Won’t be long after you. Have you college?
-I’ve study.
-Right, might see you in the library later on.
Darragh casually followed Fionn into the living room and watched him leave without a word. In the hallway now. Soon, soon? The door closed. The house grew bigger. Cycle to Howth today, why not? He opened the window wide and left the kitchen door open.
The rice took a stir. He put another nicotine pouch above his lip. He turned off his headphones and played the music from the phone speaker, propped up against the windowsill. He tossed the wok and added the garlic. He tossed everything above the heat. He finished his coffee and cleaned the chopping board, watching the garlic. Bitter when left. He added half the chopped tomatoes and half the coconut milk and mixed everything together. More of each spice. Pinch of salt. Who will come with me to Howth. Wet walk for Fionn. He stirred some more.
From the fridge he took out a handful of spinach leaves, awful when alone, everyone’s friend. He sprinkled them on top of the curry and took the popping rice off the heat. Does it become a curry only when…? By the time the rice is in, absolutely. Coconut milk? Not the onions: Italian, Mexican, Indian. Cumin: Mexican, Indian. More ingredients, less options. Coconut milk decider. He added the rice to the formal curry and turned off the heat. Spinach just an extra idea. Blindboy’s recipe. Raised by a Boatclub. Rows daily.
With Fionn’s drying spoon, Darragh tested from the wok. Curry. I’d bet my life on it. He poured the contents into a tupperware container. Rain fading. Sun might hold, yet. Locking the back door, he took the container into the living room and closed the window. He looked at Fionn’s washing and opened the window ajar. Words later if the rain wins. It’ll hold. No point drying in a locked box, nowhere to go. No point explaining, already knows. Lonely walk for him. Come to Howth. He put the container in his rucksack and took his bike from his room.
Outside, the summer hinted it would not be long off. The tarmac disagreed and the birds didn’t care. Darragh locked the front door.
WORDS: Cormac Nugent
