because to say no would stop the possible

Dutch sat on the 3rd to bottom bar deck of the ferry, counting her toenails (recently painted “Black Bean”) and her blessings. Through the window, it was becoming increasingly clear that sea had cramp.

It was in these set of particular, particularly common circumstances that Dutch met him. He sat down, directly in front of her, and offered her some of his drink. Dutch replied that, “although not a feminist, she wasn’t here to ape men”, and politely declined, returning to her toe inspection (she’d foolishly/hopefully worn open-toed sandals for her “holiday”). 
The joke was intended to be witty, and it wasn’t the first time that Dutch had said it. (He later found out, at her funeral, from her ex-boyfriend, talking about first-time-meetings, that it wasn’t typical of her).

He watched her furrow her brow at her feet. She was tall and slender, with sharp features and grey eyes. Less than by her face, he was impressed by her calm. She smiled easily, in a way which seemed to withdraw her from company. She was dressed in black, strange for an Irish (who try to brighten the drab surroundings with vivid colours). She spoke clipped, precise English, and she rolled her r’s. 

He wasn’t a great observer: these are things he realised gradually, over the course of the evening.

He asked her where she was going and she said home for the summer. She asked him, after some thought, what it meant to be English, and he said it felt like an act of Faith. “Like being Irish”, she said. She said she was going to go for a walk on the deck, and how she liked solitary walks. He said so did he, and “maybe they could go for a walk alone, together”.

They paced the deck, watching the flatly observant slate-grey sky watch them. He knew already that he loved Dutch; he could never have wanted any other person by his side. He explained how he was looking for his Beatrice. She said “maybe you’ve found her”.

He realised that an unexpected thing was not forbidden and he kissed her on her mouth and eyes. She drew away, and said, with a curiously lupine smile, “I’ll be yours ‘til morning, or Ireland – whichever comes first”. 

He didn’t make the mistake of asking her whether or not she loved him, and he took her hand, and told her this was a dream, and he never dreams. He told her that he thought that when somebody was about to die in a dream, they could see the future. 
“I’m about to die” Dutch said, laughing.
“I’d like this evening to last forever” he murmured.
“Oh, stop being so bloody earnest. And forever is a word forbidden to men.”
And with that, she pitched herself over the bow, and into the sea.