Little Piles of Change Gavin Colton (bio) Colly was having a pint with Pat in Kavanagh's after work. Pat had won twenty euro on a scratcher that morning and Colly knew it had been burning a hole in his pocket all day, that he'd be gunning for a pint. Colly was happy not to be going home right away. "Nicole's back on the smokes," Colly said. "She's not." "She is. Since losing the job." "Bernie said about the job, it's terrible," Pat said. [End Page 8] "The smoking or the job?" "The job. The smoking too." "It's been two weeks now. I had to tell the girls not to say anything to her. They were looking at YouTube videos and saying they were worried about their Ma because she was smoking. They think she's going to die." "Doesn't help with those warnings on the boxes, scaring people. Smoking Kills." "And the pictures of the black lungs in the ads on the telly." "Disgusting." "It should be illegal." Colly downed the end of his pint. "Do yeh miss them yourself? The smokes?" Pat said. "I didn't until I saw that box beside the kettle the other morning." "I'm going out myself. Will yeh have one?" "No. I won't. I'm grand." Colly looked at his phone. There was a text from Nicole. He'd sent her a few job postings and a video of a granny shooting a ping-pong ball out of her arse earlier that morning that one of the lads at work had sent him. She said the furniture place in Palmerstown had called her back and asked her to come in for an interview. He wouldn't hold his breath; Nicole had the bad habit of lying on her CV, she said that employers never actually checked. She'd get away with it even if she was caught, Colly thought. Nicole was in the habit of getting away with things, and the interview would be something to get her going again, a reason to put her face on, get her confidence up. Work at the site had been a nightmare—the concrete lads didn't show up until after lunch, so Colly and the lads made goalposts out of hard hats and one of the lads had a ball in the back of the van. Pat played in goal. World Cup singles. Colly was Luxembourg. [End Page 9] "Yeh can't be Luxembourg," one the younger lads off the site said. "They've never been in a World Cup." "Neither have you, yeh scrawny prick and look at you out here celebrating like you're bleedin' Maradonna," Colly told him. After twenty minutes, when they were all bolloxed, and the concrete lads still hadn't shown up, they left early on the promise to the foreman that they'd come in early on Monday to lay the foundation. Pat came back from outside. The smoke smelled lovely on his clothes. "Another one?" Pat said, waving a tenner at Sinead behind the bar. She snatched it off him. "Sinead, put two on there," Pat roared down the bar. "I won't." "Go on." "Nicole will batter me." "Sure, she's back on the smokes. She can't say anything." Pat was right. Nicole owed him, but Colly hated thinking about their marriage like that—keeping score on each other. "Right, one more." He got comfortable again on the stool and squinted to see the telly. They were showing a repeat of the boxing from last weekend. Fury knocking the head off the Wilder fella. It was great seeing a traveler on the telly doing well, and his parents were Irish. A group of nurses came in in their scrubs and ordered a big round. They brushed next to Colly at the bar, Irish youngones, Indian youngones, Filipinos of both genders. Fair play to them—it's hard not to like the nurses. Colly saw them protesting in town a few months ago on his way to Croke Park with the girls and Nicole. He promised a nurse fella from Nigeria that he'd vote for them when...