New Irish Writing: Valentine’s Day
by Kathleen Macadam

‘Roll over for me,” says Eva, lifting the purple towel up. I turn on to my stomach, relieved that the worst is over. She spreads hot wax on to the back of my legs, presses down the strip of cotton and rips off the hair. “How did your fella’s concert go?” she asks. I think of Aidan in Whelan’s, his black hair stuck to his temples, his eyes on me like laser beams.