By Saoirse Pira
On a Monday morning in November, Marnie will peel a pomegranate. The light through the window is thin and grey, the kind of light that makes everything look a little washed out. She can hear the boiler clicking somewhere in the house, the radiator hissing faintly like it’s making an effort, but all a bit in vain. The fruit is sitting in front of her on the counter, alongside the knife and bright green cutting board that was left in the house when she moved in.
She knows David is going to break up with her later. He hasn’t said it, but she can tell. He’s been distant, weird – answering texts late, looking at her sadly when he walks her home. When they made plans for this afternoon, his voice had this strange quality, like he already knew he didn’t want to come. She doesn’t blame him, not really, she can understand it. But still, the thought of it feels like something heavy and inevitable. The worst part, she thinks, is that she will say she brought this on herself – it was her on Friday night asking him what they were doing, if he had made up his mind about her yet. Of course, this is a normal thing to ask, but she turns the thought around in her head – at least she will have herself to blame. They were meant to meet on Sunday, but he was tired and hungover and hadn’t made up his mind. Marnie bought the pomegranate two weeks ago for a Halloween costume. She fancied herself clever, going as Persephone, though the whole thing felt slightly forced, like a joke only she was in on. A girl she sits with sometimes in lectures had suggested it to her – she said in earnest that Marnie should make David go with her as Hades. This seemed ridiculous to her, even then, but she laughed anyway, made a joke-that-wasn’t-really-a-joke about how he’d never do it. She never asked him, of course. But she bought the pomegranate and went to the party, and she fancied herself clever. She never got around to eating it afterwards. It just sat there in the fridge going weird. She isn’t sure why she picked it out this morning. Maybe because she knew today would be long, and peeling a pomegranate is something to do with her hands.
She rolls it between her hands for a bit, getting a feel for the size, and gets a sense that the last time she held a pomegranate was in primary school, though she can’t place when or why. It doesn’t really matter, it was just a feeling. She looks up how to cut a pomegranate, clicking through an article, a visual guide, a video. They all advocate a mess-free, so-easy-your-toddler-could-do-it method. She knows she won’t be following any of it, but she learns that the pomegranate is a berry, and the seeds and pulp are produced from the ovary of a flower, and it’s used for bonsai in Japan and Korea. She learns that we get the English word for the military ‘grenade’ from the modern French for the fruit; they have the same name. Her own grenade could have come from India, Israel, Peru, South Africa, Spain, Turkey, or America. The weight of it is heavy in her hands.
She sets the fruit on the cutting board finally, carves off the crown most of the way, then breaks it off clean with her hands. She scores along the ridges of the membranes, through the skin, top to bottom. The pomegranate is harder to cut than she thought it would be, and the blade catches slightly before it finally gives – it relents, and splits along the seams, and she presses her thumbs into the crack, pulling it apart. The juice beads at the edges and trickles down her wrists. It’s sticky, colder than she expected – over-ripe. The seeds glint under the dull light, impossibly red and slightly translucent, like tiny gemstones. Her hands work precisely, peeling back the membrane, plucking out the seeds one by one, watching them drop into the bowl. The whole process feels strangely neutral, almost comforting. There’s something to the rhythm of it, the way the fruit resists and then gives, the small bursts of juice staining her fingertips. She likes how quiet the kitchen is, bar the occasional faint sound of seeds hitting the bowl.
Marnie thinks about what David will say later – they’re meeting for coffee at three. She entertains a scenario in which he has made up his mind and chosen her. He will look at her like he does after a few drinks, just before a few too many. There will be love in his eyes. He will say that he’s ready, and it’s her, and he won’t say he loves her but soon enough he will love her. She picks out a stray bit of membrane from the bowl. He will not love her, she knows this much. He will say ‘I just can’t do this’, and ‘I’m sorry’. He will not say ‘I love you’, and he definitely won’t think it. She wonders if she will cry, or if she’ll sit there, nodding, like she understands it all perfectly, like she was on the same page the whole time.
She guides a seed into her mouth, bites down hard, makes note of the pop. It is both tart and impossibly sweet – something about it feels medicinal. The light has shifted slightly, making her reflection in the window more visible. She watches herself for a moment, her hands stained red, her face pale. Then she looks back at the pomegranate. The sky is heavy; Marnie can tell there will be no stars tonight. For now, though, she fixes her focus on the pomegranate, the bowl slowly filling, and the soft sound of her own relentless breathing.
⭒⭒⭒
“So, tell me about this David.”
Marnie hadn’t seen Liam since they left college for the summer. This was their grand catch-up, sat in the pub, sharing a table sticky with old spills and new initials. It was easy with Liam, the way they could fall back into rhythm after months of not seeing each other. She had told him over text that she had been seeing someone, that she really liked him. The weight of her news had felt heavy, dense in the air. He had been telling her about his summer of adventure, and she was so comfortable to be sat across from him, listening. Marnie wasn’t sure she wanted it to be her turn to talk. She hesitated, turning her glass in slow circles on the table.
“I think he’s the best person I’ve ever met,” she said finally, glancing up at him as though testing the waters.
Liam raised his eyebrow, turning his face to a kind of smirk. “Bold statement. Where did you find him?”
She laughed, looking down into her drink. “We met at Amy’s party. I don’t know, he’s just… kind.” The word felt small compared to what she wanted to say, but it was the only one that fit.
Liam tilted his head. “Kind how?”
“He listens to me,” she said, shrugging a little, like she wanted to make it sound like less than it was. “Like, actually listens. And he remembers things I’ve said, even small things. And he’s — well, he’s nice to me in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get something out of it.”
Liam gave her a look, his mouth twitching at the corners. “Marnie. This is not your usual brand.”
“I know,” she said, laughing again, but softer this time. She felt a little sheepish, like she was saying too much. “It’s different. We haven’t slept together.”
Liam blinked, visibly surprised. “Oh, this changes things. How long has it been? And he’s not gay?”
“No, he’s not gay,” she laughed, then added quickly, “It’s been a few weeks. I mean, it’s fine, obviously. It’s just – I don’t know. It’s weird. He said he doesn’t do casual. And I’ve never had someone hold their interest in me without giving them anything. Or feeling like I should. I don’t know. I think he really likes me, Liam.” She bit her lip and looked at her friend, feeling the need to downplay it somehow, like the powers that be would hear her hopefulness and strike it down. “Well, you know. We’ll see how it goes.”
Liam nodded slowly, watching her. “And you? Do you like him?”
She smiled, a small, private smile. “Yeah,” she said. “I do. He’s – he’s good to me, Liam. I like how I feel when I’m with him. He feels safe.” She felt the words settle in the air between them, heavier than she expected. She wanted to follow it up with something like, But who knows? It’s early days, just to keep things light, but the truth was she meant it. All of it.
Liam leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Well, I’m happy for you. This could be good,” he said after a moment, his voice softer now. “I mean it. It’s just… surprising, that’s all. You usually don’t—”
“Date, I know.” she finished for him, raising her glass to her lips.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling slightly. “But maybe that’s what makes this a good thing.” Marnie nodded, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she watched the bubbles rising in her pint, thinking about David – about the way he looked at her when she spoke, like her words were something he wanted to hold onto. It was a nice thought. It was hopeful.
⭒⭒⭒
They had their first kiss in the club smoking area. Marnie had gone out with him and his friends. She wasn’t sure if he liked her, or if she had misread it. He kissed her and his friends complained that it took them too long. They met for coffee on the first date, they both had it black. They talked until close, she didn’t want to leave him – she asked if he wanted to go to six-thirty mass with her, and it was almost a joke until he said yes. They walked and sat in an old pub with sticky beermats. They walked to mass, arm-in-arm. If we walked to church like this back home, they’d ask when we’d be married. He knelt beside her in the pews. She thought he was beautiful. She apologised after, when it dawned on her that it was probably abnormal to be taken to church on a first date. He said it was okay. They found another pub – they sat, they talked. He was beautiful. It got late, she didn’t want to leave him. He walked her home; she hung on his arm and laughed, because they looked like Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo walking. She invited him in. She showed him her favourite record, lay in his lap, listened to the first song. I’m quite fond of you, you know. She couldn’t find her favourite movie, so let him put on his. They lay on her bed. He kissed her. She felt beautiful. She tried to follow the movie, but her eyes were heavy and he was snoring, so she let herself sleep beside him. They woke up before the movie ended, he said he had to go. She didn’t want him to leave her, but she walked him to the door anyway. He kissed her at the door, and she didn’t close it until the dark swallowed him whole.
⭒⭒⭒
It happens the way she knew it would. Marnie gets to the café a few minutes early, hovers at the side entrance, stubs out her cigarette. He catches her, she walks over, they hover by the front door.
“I’m sure you know what I’m going to say.”
And she did – and he says just that. I just can’t do this. I thought I could. I’m sorry. The words land as they should — short, simple, unremarkable, a thud so predictably neat. Marnie had built this world in her mind, she had lived through it already. All there was left to do now was to watch it twist, contort, realise itself in front of her.
She nods then, she gets it – she understands. She has already understood. They move to sit on a bench facing the car park. It’s a shopping park, there are old ladies passing them with trollies, bags of groceries unloaded into cars. Marnie begs a little there, it doesn’t work – it doesn’t matter.
“Can we still be friends, though?” He shifts on his feet, looks at the ground.
“Of course. I want to be your friend.”
They would not be friends, this much she knows. It would be strange – strange because she almost loved him, stranger still because he knew it. They part awkwardly, she makes a joke that isn’t funny. He laughs, it’s warm. They will not be friends. There was no coffee, in the end. Marnie walks herself home, stares at the sky. Seagulls caw somewhere in the distance – someone told her once that this means a storm is coming. She has to laugh then: the sheer drama of it all.
In the kitchen, the kettle lets out a hiss before the final pop. Marnie makes a cup of tea. This time, she will take it with milk. Her pomegranate seeds sit in a bowl on the counter. It feels practiced, when her hands find the seeds, when she lifts them out to inspect the stains: blotches of pink, so much red.
The sky outside is heavy, there will be no stars tonight.