I think he died for me...

'I think he died for me.'  You looked at me expectantly, 'Greta said that didn't she?' You were gesturing to my own dogeared copy of Dubliners in your lap.

It was one of those days, those beautiful sunny days that our mid-twenties seemed to be made of. We were lying in the grass, outside the lecture hall, coffee and half eaten sandwiches lay abandoned around us. The smell of illicit smoke drifted out from behind the science lab. The physics students were the worst for it, maintaining that the weed opened their minds so they could understand the complex world of theoretical physics. High, they could debate the merits of String Theory over Loop Quantum Gravity, or whatever it is that theoretical physicists talk about while high. Probably Stargate Universe versus Atlantis if we're being honest.

'Hey!' You tapped me with your highlighter on the knee, 'I asked you a question.'

'Yeah, Greta said it about Michael Furey, to Gabriel.' You were still looking at me. 'What?' I asked, feeling uncomfortable under your gaze.

'Well... Did he die for her?' You were smiling, that smile.

I wanted to tell you yes. I wanted to tell you that poor Michael Furey risked his already failing health to throw stones at Greta's window, that it had meant he loved her, and that he died in order to let her know. It wasn't true though. At least not to me. Greta's statement that Michael Furey died for her was just romanticism. What Michael died of was consumption, not a broken heart. We had discussed the line in lectures and tutorials, you would have known if you bothered to attend your lectures.

It was easy to see the romance in Joyce, the romance in Ireland, it wasn't always so easy to see the truth. That's what Joyce was saying, the Irish, we were too caught up in the romanticism of ourselves. The line was supposed to be a homage to Yeats' Cathleen ni Houlihan, Yeats' feminine representative of Eire, the woman who men would die for, and die willingly. Once again, you would have known this yourself if you had bothered to show up one in awhile, instead of two weeks before finals. I looked at you then, feeling a compulsive urge to land this all on you, to corrupt the image you had of Greta, of Joyce, of Ireland and maybe even of yourself.

As I opened my mouth a breeze drifted over the grass and swept itself up in your hair. You laughed as you tried to catch the wily strands, drifting around your face, obscuring you for a second or two. I watched you, taking each strand and pulling them back into your hands at the nape of your neck. You leaned over, so close to me I thought for a minute that this was the moment, instead you lifted my ballpoint pen out of my open notebook and used it to pin your hair. You sat back, a satisfied smile on your lips, and picked Dubliners, cracking the already battered spine some more.

'Are you planning on answering me?' You were pouting now, half mocking half serious.

I thought again for a moment and said 'Yes, he died for her.'

As you lay back in the grass, sighing with the romanticism of it all, I thought about what I should have said.

Michael Furey didn't die for Greta, but I would die for you.