‘Karita’ by P. Kearney Byrne
Karen’s fella is sound asleep, his mouth a bit open, his breath warm on her neck. From the next room, there’s low murmuring and blurry, rhythmic sounds. Not the usual pretend groans she and Rita make for a laugh, the fake orgasm noises they joke about later, sitting in the kitchen having tea. These are proper soft moans that Rita and her lad can’t suppress. Then much louder, with deep grunts at the end. Rita and that lad really trying to keep it quiet but not able to.
Karen knows not to knock on the wall, not to make a fool of herself, and Rita hasn’t rapped on it either, hasn’t made their usual signal, the hollow thump on the plasterboard, the one that says, Right! Let’s get the lads out! It means that, tonight, there’s going to be no getting up from their beds. No shunting the two fellas out the door. No making tea when they have the flat back to themselves. No sitting in the dawny light at the kitchen table, smoking fags and chatting, laughing about the night before. No going back to their beds afterwards to get a few hours sleep before the early shift. No Karen putting her hand on the wall alongside her single bed, knowing Rita is asleep, so close there on the other side of the partition, almost beside her.
In the other room, Rita and her fella are talking, the bed still squeaking, but less than before. The little battery clock on Karen’s windowsill chugs away. The street lamp outside shines on the yellow wallpaper, making it orangey-cream. The night inches on, every second hard and scratchy, like a knife dragging through grit. The lower half of her leg has gone numb. It’s because what’s-his-name – Declan – has his huge heavy knee on top of it. His prick, soft and still a bit sticky, lies against her hip and the hairs on his thigh itch her. She’d push his leg off, but it’s only a narrow bed, there’s nowhere to push him to. And he might wake up, want to start again.
Next door has gone quiet at last. She thought they’d never finish. She frees her right hand, reaches across her body and lays it flat against the wallpaper, starts picking bits off the embossed pattern. It’s dry and chalky and she can feel it, caking and painful, under her fingernails. She does this, picks at things, when she’s feeling shite. But if she does it too much, scratches a big bald patch on the wallpaper, Rita might notice it, think she’s a nutter. They often sit on each other’s beds nattering before they go out to work.
It was hard to get through the sex tonight. He’s nice enough, was gentle even though he’s a big broad article. But it was a one-way street. Karen was too distracted by what was going on in Rita’s room. Normally, that’s how she gets herself worked up enough for the whole thing, listening to Rita. Tonight, it was the opposite, hearing it all. It’s happened before, a few times, other lads Rita took a shine to. There was no rap on the wall from her then either, and each time Karen knew it was one of those situations, one of those fellas. She’d struggled through those nights too, and when she got up in the morning, always the same thing. They’d be there at the kitchen table, Rita and yer man, whichever one, him sitting in her chair – Karen’s chair – smoking her fags, drinking from her cup, and Rita not smirking behind his back at her, not making her feel included. Rita really talking to this lad, not wanting Karen to come into the kitchen, not wanting a flatmate.
She drops off to sleep. When she wakes in the morning, she can hear Rita and yer man, still in bed, the muffled chatting and laughing. That’s probably what woke her. She knows what happens next. Yes, there it is, the longer silences, then the creaks in the bed starting up, and everything inside her goes cold and tumbles down, like wet clay.
Her own fella is awake. She can feel him turning more fully towards her, his prick rising, poking at her, the sounds next door have got him all mixed up, the two in the other room, the two of them in here, and it doesn’t matter now who’s screwing who. He pushes his tongue into her mouth, it’s rough and dry, moves it across her back teeth. She closes her eyes and lets it happen, lets herself be taken away from her bed, into Rita’s bed, and if it wasn’t for the weight of him and the hairy legs and chest, and the scrubbing of his stubble against her, and the horrible knowing what’s happening next door, she could pretend that it’s just them, Karen and Rita.
Karen and Rita. Karita. That’s what they call them at work. The older women and the married women with kids. Because they’re the two youngest, single. Because they like a laugh, like going out on the town. Because they both read books. Bukes. Mrs Brennan, the supervisor, puts them on the same shifts, cleaning the same floor, so they’re always together. Where’s Karita? It’s shorter and they all think it’s a good one, funny. Where’s Karita? Get Karita to bring up the buckets and hoovers to level five.
Mr Sheen and Ajax and Vim and rubber gloves. The smells stay with you after, even if you shower. Rita hates the work. She can’t wait to finish every day, to belt out of there with her hair flying. But Karen loves it, the two of them working side by side, the split shifts, early mornings and evenings, mopping and scouring and cleaning, laughing at what they find in the office bins, in the mop closets. Rita lives for the evenings when they scoot home to Leeson Street, change their smelly clothes and head back into town. Elbowing through the pubs, the Foggy Dew, McDaids, Davy Byrnes, seeing what’s what. What’s what is that Rita wants a man. She never says that. But Karen knows it’s the main point. Go out for the craic and the laugh and maybe she’ll find the man she wants to marry. Then what’ll happen to Karita? It’s what gives her that horrible sickie feeling of fright.
They’ve finished next door, and in here, in her bed, the lad on top of her has stopped too. Karen twists her head to look out her bedroom window. Curtains she never pulls, sky and clouds. Down below, the traffic has started. It’s going to be another scorcher. Some of the offices have air-conditioning, but most of them don’t. They’ll be sweltering in work. Her fella has pulled himself out and she’s a bit sore. He slides off, watching her. Are you okay? he says. Sorry about that there. I forgot to ask if you were ready and all. But are you okay?
Underneath the duvet, she takes hold of the sheet and wipes around her fanny as well as she can. He tries to help. He leans up on his elbow and stares at her. He seems to want to touch her face. It’s just you’re looking a bit... he says. And she takes his hand and puts it on the duvet over her stomach. I’m grand she says. But I have to get up for work, like, so you’re going to have to go. He goes a bit red in the face. Yeah, he says. Course. I was just going anyways. He gets up and starts pulling on his jocks and his jeans. He has a nice shape, even if he’s a bit stocky. Would you be in town later this evening? he says. She says she doesn’t know. Well, I’ll be in the Stag’s Head, he says, about seven-ish. If you fancied a drink? Or whatever. She sits up in the bed with the sheet pulled up to her chest. Even though he’s seen her body in the night, she doesn’t want him seeing it now. She sits like that until he has his socks pulled on, his runners laced up, his jacket zipped. He’s going extra slowly. She knows it’s because he wants to kiss her goodbye, so she swings her legs out over the side of the bed onto the floor, tatty old carpet, still keeping herself covered. She puts her face down and hunches over, pretends to be picking at her toes. Okay, he says. I’m off then. Thanks and all. Maybe I’ll see you later? When she knows he’s at the bedroom door, she looks up. Yeah, she says. Maybe. See you.
She hears him leave the flat, gets up to go to the jacks. In the mirror, she looks shite. Her face is grey and dragged down, like a dirty sheet. She has a pee, and it stings. She hears Rita’s bedroom door opening, footsteps crossing into the kitchen, tap water rattling into the kettle, the bread bin opening, the grill clanging, the whumph of the gas being lit. Fridge door. Bedroom door again, yer man’s footsteps on the lino, crossing the kitchen in his bare feet, some sniggering, then silence. Probably snogging now. Murmuring. Plates going onto the table, but they’ll take the toast back to bed. There’s no seat on the jacks, so it’s just the hard porcelain and her legs are going numb. She stands up and rubs at them, flushes the toilet, washes her hands. They haven’t gone back to the bedroom yet. They’re going to have their toast in the kitchen. She hears the metal teapot lid clattering. Yes. They’re staying in the kitchen. She opens the loo door, goes up the hall.
Rita’s at the kitchen counter making the tea. She waves one hand without turning around, says Hi like her mouth is full of bread. The lad is sitting at the table buttering his slice of toast. He’s tall and blond, legs spread out, wearing Rita’s dressing gown. Howarya, he says, looking at her. It was her he’d fancied last night, not Rita. She’s better looking, and it’s usually her they aim for. But she lets Rita take her pick and she always ends up with the friend. The friends aren’t so bad. Sometimes they’re nicer than the main fella, kinder, sometimes funnier too. Howarya yourself? she says. He seems okay, this one. He could be the one Rita’s looking for. Will you tell them I won’t be into work today? Rita says. She’s putting milk and cups on the table. She doesn’t make eye contact. Do you want some tea? she says. It’s a fresh pot. No thanks, Karen says. Yeah, I’ll tell them.
Karen goes into her room, sits on the side of her bed. Will she bother having a shower? No point. She doesn’t want to have to walk past the two of them again. She’ll just get into her work clothes, put them on over the dried sex smells. She’ll buy some tea and a roll in Bewley’s, go to work early, tell them Rita is sick and won’t be in today. She’ll be on her own all morning, or Mrs Brennan might help her. It’ll be shite anyway. On the way home, she’ll buy another bread roll, some sliced cheese and some crisps. And a bottle of Coke, so she won’t need to make tea. She’ll hide the lot in her bag.
When she gets back to the flat, Rita will be in bed with yer man. Or they might be in the kitchen making food. Or sitting drinking and smoking, Rita in her dressing gown, yer man in his boxers. The place will reek of sex. Karen won’t go into the kitchen, she’ll go straight down the hall into her bedroom. She’ll sit on the edge of her bed for a while. She’ll be starving like she usually is after work. She’ll eat her stuff from her bag. If they go to bed and start screwing, she doesn’t know what she’ll do, how she’ll get through the day until the evening shift starts. She’ll have to go out for a while. Stephen’s Green, maybe. Then after work, go out somewhere else. The Stag’s Head probably. About seven-ish.
From issue 9: autumn/winter 2019
About the Author
P. Kearney Byrne’s stories have appeared in the Irish Times, Sunday Business Post, Per Contra, Compose and other journals. Her awards include the Penguin Ireland/Sunday Business Post, Francis McManus and John McGahern Award. She has twice been longlisted in the Sunday Times EFG competition. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from UCD.
