Cathal Maguire

The key clicked in the lock at 8:00 PM, predictable as always. Cathal walked in, shaking rain from his coat before setting his canvas bag by the door. He smelled of stale salt and flight cabins. "You left the hall light off," he said, stepping into the living room. I didn't move from the kitchen stool. For three years, his long absences were just the tax paid for his time, another shipment of 18th-century porcelain or restored leather bindings taking him across borders. Months vanished into quiet space, rationalized by his strict rule against phone calls during acquisitions. Distractions ruined the work, he used to say. He didn't ask why I wasn't at the airport yesterday. He didn't ask why the apartment was cold, or why the birthday card I bought myself last month was still sitting face-down on the counter. He crossed the floor, his boots heavy on the parquet, and sat on the edge of the sofa. He didn't unbutton his jacket. He reached out, his thumb dragging across my knuckles until he pulled my hand into his lap. His skin was rough, cold from the rain. "I saw you by the baggage carousel," he said. His voice was flat, carrying the clinical exhaustion of a man reading a customs manifest. I pulled my hand back, but his grip tightened just enough to keep it anchored. He didn't look at my face. He stared at the scratched coffee table between us. "I am married," he said. "We need to end our thing here." The clock on the microwave hummed. Outside, a delivery scooter idling in the alley revved its engine and sped off into the rain. "She travels with you now," I said. "She always did," he replied, letting my fingers go. He stood up, adjusted the collar of his coat, and reached for his bag.