I realised what didn't happen, after, is what is most important. I went back to the station, to the platform. In my mind I waved her off again. I found it harder this time to turn away. I walked then again to the kiosk. I knew he was watching me, from a station café. I learnt from an old girlfriend the ability to see everything from the corner of the eye; to never turn to look at someone looking at you. They see you, but they will never be sure if you have seen them or not. I bought the Sunday paper and left the station. I paused at the bottom of the escalator to give him time.

Before she left is what did happen. As her father, an old cop, once said, "People don't die from bullet wounds. They are dead before the bullet is even fired." Before she left is when the bullets were being put in the barrel. When the train pulled off -- that is when she fired.

I saw him coming out of the station and I crossed the street. I didn't look back but kept walking towards Connolly Street.

"What would you do, in my situation?" she asked me before getting on the train. I actually didn't answer. I was glad that I didn't have to know, that it wasn't me, that I wasn't her.

"You have no other choice," I told her. I didn't kiss her. I wanted to. I held her soft hand as I helped her with her suitcase. She never cut her nails.

As I walked away from the station I was thinking that at least I knew where he was; I didn't have to worry about him suddenly appearing, and I didn't have to avoid looking him in the eye.

I remember the sound of her black high heels on the steps of the train. I remember the sound of her red high heels on the steps of my house.

"Now, you promised," she said as she leaned out the train window. She was pressing her lips together as though she had just put lipstick on. They looked redder too.

"I know." How long could I keep him following me, I was thinking, as I crossed Connolly Street and headed towards the river.

She waved as the train pulled off. She was waving to me but really she was waving to everything. I could still see her red lips, her jet black hair. I could almost see her blue eyes. Then it was just the movement of her hand that I could see against the blue sky. I turned quickly and went to the kiosk and bought a paper. It was Saturday.

I crossed over the Halfpenny Bridge and went through the archway into Temple Bar.

I stopped as I stepped onto the cobblestones, again to give him time. From the corner of my eye I saw him coming over the bridge, stooping down to give money to a beggar.

Nothing could deliver her life to him. I kept walking, one step ahead, him behind, walking on, away from the thousand other options that the past didn't take, away from what didn't happen, away from what was most important, away from her.


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