As good as any place

It was a Monday when it happened.  Mirela had an overwhelming urge to buy flowers after her early morning shift cleaning hotel rooms on O’Connell Street so decided to wander over to Moore Street to treat herself to colours.  The autumnal days in Dublin sometimes saddened her, made her think of home and all she missed, but this day was providing her with a delicious lightness of spirit and a giddy glow of excitement. 

When she first moved to Dublin she wrote that Summerhill was a pleasant enough place to live and that her apartment would be cosy once she’d made some small changes.  New curtains, a rug, some china cups with saucers and a tablecloth had dramatically changed the interior and she felt at home now.  She didn’t have many visitors or parties, but it was warm there and she could study her English, listen to the radio, prepare food and relax.  She liked the nights in her apartment best of all when she would light some candles and she slept very well there.  It was as good as any place and it was getting better all the time.

Her English teacher was a young man with a name like Conor or Colm and her evening classes gave a structure to her weeks and months.   The work in the hotel was boring but not difficult and lately, her supervisor was beginning to treat her more politely, with more patience and with occassional smiles.  The money she earned, with some tips from guests, meant that she could live quite well and could still send money back to Salonta.  Even twice a year she could send parcels with clothes, chocolates and medicines, to her sisters back home,  and once a month she went to the cinema.

So Mirela bought the flowers on Moore Street.  A delightful bouquet of late summer sun-flowers which were wrapped in simple white plain paper and she held them as a bride might as she began her walk home.  And then it happened.  From nowhere, a woman about the same age as Mirela but with vague eyes and a venomous anger spoke to her.

“Any smokes?” asked the women and Mirela shook her head. 

The woman repeated “I said, do you have a cigarette?” 

Mirela tried to walk on past, but the woman hissed  “you greedy smug cunt, you go back to wherever it is you come from, you dirty piece of filth”.

Mirela  felt so suddenly disorientated that she dropped the bouquet to the ground.  She wanted to pick the flowers up but everything was moving slower now, and she was unable to do.  She was feeling almost sea-sick.  She wrapped her scarf closer to her face and hurried along the road, not looking backwards nor forwards even, and she tried to disappear into the crowd of other shoppers.  The flowers remained on the ground with the slight wind moving them gently into the traffic as Mirela walked home to Summerhill.  There she would lock the door, listen to the radio and wait for the night to come.