On top of all that, he was the only man I’d met who made me feel petite, and to feel protective over someone who physically towers over you is a hell of a drug.

The fear of heartbreak was almost worse than the reality of it. I felt as though I had swallowed a wet bath mat.

He was free range now, pressing bodies up against every smoking area in Cork, and taking some of them home.

It was the summer of un-aired grievances.

He fell asleep soon after that, and I watched him. Not the affectionate gaze of a lover, but the frantic, anxious stare of someone trying to bend spoons with their mind.

Opportunities like this rolled in and out, never with great regularity, but I developed a CV all the same.

It is the Irish equivalent of the name James.

Was it really as bad as all that? It’s hard to say. I was the centre of my world, so it felt natural to assume that everyone in Cork knew who I was and was talking about me. But could I have been imagining it all?

I gulped it down deeply, like a marathon runner reaching for water.