She saw him under the Christmas decorations on Grafton St. He had his collar turned up against the cold. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be elsewhere, in a different city, a different country.

Maybe it wasn’t him – perhaps it was just a trick of the darkening winter light. She hoped so. But just to be safe, she turned on her heels and fled down the street in the opposite direction. She didn’t want to risk running into him, having to make polite conversation as if they were old friends.
She remembered the last time she’d seen him. It had been Christmas, years ago. The first time she’d seen him had been Christmas too, or near enough – their time together was neatly book-ended by tinsel and fairy lights.
The first Christmas there had been laughter and dancing and long days spent in bed. She had found him, or perhaps he had found her, on a crisp December night. The cold was a marvel to her. The standard decorations of snowflakes and fat snowmen had always seemed incongruous under the hot December sun. This felt like Christmas should. Not that there is snow often in Dublin, but she was an optimist and the biting cold held out the tantalising possibility.
He sent her text message after text message – invitations to meet for a drink, to see a film, to have dinner. These were pretexts to get her back to his flat and into his bed. She knew that and she didn’t mind. She appreciated his determination that the niceties be observed.
The second Christmas things had taken a darker turn. There had been arguments and suspicions and long days spent not talking.
It was cold in his flat. He gave her a fleece to wear. It was too large, shapeless on her body. Underneath she wore black lace lingerie and perfume as concessions to femininity.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
“I look ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just us.”
She felt suspicious of his kindness, as if he knew that she was pulling away, that she wasn’t as keen as she used to be and this was a last ditch attempt to keep her close, or at least, off-guard.
For the past year he had been indifferent to her comfort. He liked her to dress in flimsy clothes, short skirts, high heels, damn the weather. He took pleasure in showing her off to his friends. She suspected he was gratified by their supposed desire for her. She intuited that he told them locker room tales too, stories of conquest and submission, perhaps faithful to the truth but likely to be embellished.
This was a dangerous game. Two of them had already propositioned her in low voices, but she refused. She told him about the first one but somehow this honesty marked her as devious in his eyes. She was blamed. A third had asked what she was doing with this man, told her she deserves better. His friends are just everyday lads, but he is not like anyone else. This was not a compliment.
He had dark moods and strange jealousies. At first she decided to ascribe these to cultural differences, to see them as indicative of a national character. She hadn’t been here long enough to get a handle on the natives. Their ways were still somewhat mysterious, and to impart his flaws on the nation as a whole, well, there was a comfort in that.
He doled out his time and his body, careful not to give her too much – just enough to keep her wanting more. He punished her by withdrawing his affections. A slip-up, a perceived slight and he would refuse to sleep with her. That was anathema to her. That’s why she was with him. She told herself that this is love, but she was surprisingly naïve at times. Under her worldly indifference, she was a romantic, still is, too fond of stories with happy endings. This time there wouldn’t be one…
They are walking to the shop to buy the last of the provisions for Christmas dinner. He has planned an elaborate menu for her. As they walk he is describing the meal, the intricate and delicate preparation of each course. She is quiet. This is not like her, especially where food is concerned. He likes to cook for her; she likes to eat. In this way at least they are well matched.
Half an hour earlier, she had found a box of condoms in his bedside drawer. She hadn’t been snooping; he’d asked her to look there for his wallet. The box had been opened, three of the twelve sachets used, but not with her. She is allergic to this brand and he knows it.
He must have wanted her to see it. The question is why. After a year she has learnt that he is not scrupulous with the truth. This is a game and she is not sure of the rules. Does he want to provoke her to break up with him? This is a possibility of course, but he has already bought her a Christmas present, a relatively expensive one too. If that was the plan, he would have done it a few weeks before and saved himself the expense. He likes to say he is careful with money, which sounds admirable. The truth is, he is stingy.
She should say nothing, but she can’t do that. “Who are you sleeping with?” she asks.
“Nobody,” he says. “Just you.”
She mentions the evidence that indicates otherwise and he laughs. He likes to jerk off using a condom, he says, it’s neater and feels like someone else.
“Is that why you’re so quiet?” he asks. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”
As excuses go, it has the virtue of originality although it lacks credibility. The lie bothers her more than the infidelity, but she refuses to get upset. She realises that is what he wants. He wants to anger her and make her cry, to take her to the point of ending their relationship but only so he can reel her in again. He has done it before, now he is upping the stakes, seeing how far he can push her. If she gives him that, she will be in his power, that’s what he supposes.
Since last Christmas she has learnt how he thinks.
“Oh, okay. Fair enough,” she says. He looks surprised. He hadn’t expected to be believed.
It’s the night before Christmas Eve. She will be agreeable and play dumb. He is good in the kitchen and good in the bedroom. She will eat and fuck as much as she can between now and New Year’s Day. She will gorge herself on food and sex for the days that remain until the end of the year. It will be her Christmas gift to herself, a holiday of sorts. Then she will walk away and not look back. She makes a silent resolution.
It won’t be as easy as she thinks. He will not let her go without a fight. But she doesn’t know that now.
There will be regrets, and revenge, and anxious discussions with friends about restraining orders, but that’s all in the future. On the icy pavement, he turns to her and reaches out for her hand; she gives it to him and smiles.