On Monday, Marcus treated me to a trip to the Lighthouse Cinema to see His & Hers. I arrived in Smithfield ten minutes early and waited patiently. I took shelter in the entrance of a closed shop in an effort to avoid the heavy rain that pelted onto Smithfield Square. A brigade of junkies occupied another doorway further down, refusing to allow miserable weather spoil a party. After five minutes or so, I walked out into the centre of the square, looking up at the surrounding apartment blocks. They are built far too close to one another, I thought. I recalled an evening when I visited a friend for dinner, who at that time lived in one of these apartments. After clearing our plates, we took to the comfort of his couch, which provided an ideal vantage point, from where I could see into ten or so apartments. I had no interest in Coronation Street that night since I could see the real life goings on of dozens of people in Smithfield.
My thoughts returned to the present and I noticed the rain had eased off. The square remained quiet. The gang of junkies no longer occupied their doorway, more than likely moved on by the Gardaí. A large number of people poured out of the cinema behind me without warning, reminding me why I was in Smithfield. I glanced about for Marcus. I was curious about what jacket he might wear. I had opted for a black leather-jacket and in doing so had assessed the possibility that he might also wear his. The last time this happened, I compared us to Posh & Beck’s matching leather jumpsuits at the MTV awards. I saw Marcus in the distance. Yes, he wore his black leather jacket.
“Hi,” he said cheerily on his approach. We shared our usual half hug, half kiss on the cheek.
“I see we have once again opted for our matching black leather-jacket look. Morto!”
Once in the foyer of the cinema, far removed from the gloom of the dreary evening, Marcus unzipped his jacket.
“No way,” I gasped in disbelief.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“You are wearing a black leather-jacket, jeans, red runners and a red shirt. I am wearing a black leather-jacket, jeans, purple runners and a purple T-shirt.”
“Oh yeah. How funny?” This didn’t bother him whereas it genuinely upset me.
“How messed up do we look?”
“What’s the problem, Stephen?” Marcus clearly failed to see reason for concern.
“We look like some weird, overly colour co-ordinated, gay faction of a biker gang.”
Marcus sighed. “Really, Stephen, could you just not think of it as affirmation of our equally good fashion sense?” This was put dismissively. Marcus turned and walked on ahead of me.
I considered this for a moment. “I suppose,” I replied loud enough for him to catch in the distance he had put between us. I toddled after him, secretly grateful we would soon be viewing a movie from the comfort of a dimly lit auditorium.