by Haritha Olaganathan

I:

Andi lugged the bin bags off the Drimnagh platform at 15:08. It was her customary journey, but this Friday was the worst by far, for where would she keep these bags? The blood? Herself?

As a temporary solution, she chose not to bleed over taxpayers’ commute cushions and dropped into the lighter bin bag.

The usual stream-of-consciousness ensued: she’d finally purchase a set of bags that could actually be classed as luggage. No, she didn’t need suitcases, because she would not go through this fiasco again. She needed a home, one without visiting hours, perhaps even a flushable toilet. Andi’s mind relished upon this stable utopia as her head leaned against a window, her pulsing temples soothed by the buzz from the tracks below.

Rialto approached and Andi assessed her two most contentious contacts. A text from Lord Alan seized the lead:

Alan: Hey beautiful, hope you’re having a good day. So, one of my Air bnbers cancelled for the weekend so could save you the room. And some trouble...if you wanted to join me for dinner later? We can see where it goes from there ;)

Andi: Alan, I’m gay, you’re married, and my landlord.

Alan: Hey, just trying to help you out. You're behind on rent you know! If you’re that picky your roommate can join us. Fine with me.

Andi: Get a grip. See you Monday.

She was bisexual, but that was beside the point.

It was funny, no, hilarious. What poxy entitled dickhead wishes someone “a good day” after demanding they pack their bags an hour beforehand? Probably a mass text to every female tenant under his watch.

Andi’s grimace remained after a glance in her oncephone-now-mirror.

Her incisors nicked at her lower lip whilst she fished through her rainbow Penneys tote for toothpaste and applied it to her spots, willing them away with the salicylic acid. It would burn for a minute, but she was 23 for God’s sake, acne breakouts were meant to be a thing of the past! Forget self-care and face masks, after day-long queues for a lukewarm shower her skin’s screams for sanitation were no shock.

A wet-wipe scrubbed the toothpaste away at the Fatima stop, where Andi scrunched her hair into a little bob. The glow-up would ease the stares when she’d take the bags into work. She planned to shove them under the ping-pong tables, unbeknownst to the thankfully absent bar manager. Her manager’s absence was no cause for excitement however, as her bank account would remain empty for a further week now.

Unsupported on her bag as the Luas made a turn, she stumbled, landing on the heavier bin bag, her back prodded by forks and spiral-bound notebooks. A smile was painted on for turning faces, but Andi's smile was outshone by her cheeks, which burned scarlet with shame and homeoepathic Colgate.

So, she wouldn’t be able to pay for a room tonight. It was meant to be a treat, a pat on the back after the breakup, rendered difficult by her dependency on the Ex for parttime shelter. She hadn’t the time to mourn and saw this week’s routine eviction as an opportunity to rectify this.

Her sweet dreams suffocated, Andi clicked on her phone to the second contentious contact. For a bare second, too short-lived for her screen to respond, but she considered texting the Ex. After all, he was unblocked in case of an emergency, and this, if anything, was an emergency.

Andi knew that a response to the Ex’s three am booty calls would be little different to dinner with Alan. Both would take her in. Stringed safety for sex. But sex was not rent.

When the Luas stopped at Smithfield, the new passengers peered at the swamp of bin bags below; Andi its snake. She refused to notice the bemused children passing by, clutched closer by their parents. She was making it on her own. Every week, Andi believed this a little less.

She grabbed her bags and made her way to the doors of the next carriage, away from the ticket inspector. Andi hadn’t bothered to try to tap on, and the last thing she needed was a golden ticket. She’d walk the stop to Abbey Street.

I I:

A cocktail-filled Andi ran into the last Luas carriage of the night. She took in her surroundings: empty given the hour -the ends occupied by late-shift workers and kids buzzed off of weed, but still serene.

Andi caught her breath and allowed her body to collapse onto the seat below (her colleague had given her a pad and a complimentary reprimand for not using a menstrual cup, unaware that since the Ex, Andi’s Keigel muscles locked up the premises at the approach of any foreign object). She rummaged through her bin bags to triple-check that they were the right ones; some new smartass had decided to throw them out back with the bins.

ABBA Night would generally be Andi’s forte, but not when the lines

‘Money, Money, Money

‘Must be funny

‘In a rich man’s world’ filled her brain, a constant reminder of her situation.

She whipped out her phone to check her notifications; tags from faraway friends left her hungry for online attention. She reread Alan’s message and attempted to pinpoint which one of her flatmates would have agreed to the deal. Any one of them might have. Lava bubbled in her throat. They were all the same to him - desperate.

Equally pathetic was the Ex, whose stream of hankering texts began at eight pm - he’d started early. First came the aubades, followed by a pick ‘n’ mix of memories and topped by passionate descriptions of assault that should warrant a prison sentence. Alcohol fuelled the Ex’s aggressive tendencies, and one drink was never enough.

James’s. His stop. If he was lucky, he’d be strewn topless on his sofa. Andi had tried to provide the care he needed for his addiction, but that was not her job. No one’s job description should include abuse (one of the positive affirmations Andi repeated on the daily). At some point, it sunk in - he did not need Andi and she never needed him.

She screenshots the messages (in case of an emergency) then blocks the Ex. So, Andi was on her own, with nowhere to go. But she knew what she had to do. This knowledge left her heart in knots, but as she passed the tents pitched by the tracks, she knew that it was time to ask for help.

Andi reminded herself that forgiveness was long overdue. People that do bad things are seldom bad people, but people that need a direction for change. Andi hadn’t been provided that; she’d been ushered out the door - told to do it alone if she wanted to do it with girls.

And for so long Andi, a social pariah, had fought the system. But she couldn’t make it alone anymore. Not in Dublin, her home. She needed help, the unconditional love she’d been promised.

The Luas walls hugged her goodbye.

She would walk up to the house, for the first time in five years.

One, two, three knocks would do it, for inside lived a light sleeper who’d scurry down the stairs to help anyone, anytime. Andi embraced her bin bags and rainbows in all their glory.

The doors open.

“Hello, Amma.”

“Nandita...”

The doors close.