Soulmates
I was 16 and sitting in my art class. The boy I was madly in love with, in the way your 16 year old giddy heart can only love, leaned across the table and asked ‘So do you actually believe in “The One” Caitríona?’ I was delirious. My pupils dilated, I felt faint, churning sick, beautiful and achingly aware of my Hammerite braces. I wanted to run or else make a Bronte leap into his arms. This was it, he feels it, and he knows he is north-west Donegal’s Burton to my Taylor. He wants to take my hand as we step into my lobster-like vision of us sailing through a cotton cream life where we end up in the kind of home where our kids roll their eyes every time we dance around our grey-haired cosy kitchen to ‘Memories are made of this.’ And we laugh and remember when our joints didn’t hurt as much or when we made love like insatiable, insane creatures or wished we had started saving for our pensions earlier. …