the leather couch. He handed her the key.
She examined the key and passed it back.
“Do you believe this has something to do with your parents and how you might see yourself as the key to bringing them back together?”
It was a fair diagnosis.
chapter 8
long hard road home
“Are y' from around here, cailin? I don't believe we've met,” asked a handsome local bartender. The barman was working the late shift in EJ Morrissey's, off Dublin-Cork Road in Dublin, Ireland, testing a gal's ID and patience, before handing over a cool drink.
“I've always lived in the flats,” huffed a soft female voice. “Do you know the old prison museum in Kilmainham?”
“You're over in the suburbs, a couple miles out?” he prodded.
“Yes! Exactly, sham. I'll just end the suspense, I'm almost 18-years-young. Now, being that you've already served a hapless lass, there's really no sense making a scene or getting either of us into any senseless trouble,” she paused. “You know what, let's have another!”
“So your name is not Zane?” he asked, condoning her flirtation.
“No, it is, but I'm not 20, as the card suggests. Zane Brennan is my birthright. It basically means, bad arse feek,” she added, with blush. She didn't want to lose his trust, nor interest.
“Feek, huh? Modest, too?” he paused. “Why are you out drinking before milk and cookies?”
“Isn't there a commandment on the wall, over there, that says, 'Thou shall not drive through Abbeyleix without pausing in Morrissey's for a pint,'" Zane quipped.
“Yes! Believable, or not, you've got a fetching sass! Carry on.”
“My parents split, my best friend moved and I'm not having too much luck in love.”
“So, you're compensating?”
“I've dated around, but I'm not really attracted to the lads my age,” offered Zane, biting into a thick moment of still air. Her body language was a neon sign, stating, “You are exactly the right age!”
“Maybe I can join you for a drink, sometime?” he asked.
“That would be your treat!” she joked, with a wink. “I have to leave town, to visit family in the States, but I'm sure I'll find you passed out in the bogs, when I return.”
“Sounds like a date,” he risked.
“It's a date,” she confessed.
“I have better things to do than croak with the frogs,” he said, bidding her giddy hand farewell.
Zane was bedazzled, but painfully average. She rested comfortably in the security her tattooed cred and grandfather's worn military jacket provided and bathed in the bravado her combat boots added to a tragically hip and painfully ironic purple pixie haircut. A tiny silver hoop held onto her petite nose. She was a tomboy, posing as a punk rocker. By all accounts, a disgruntled middle class girl, crying out for attention. She was a novice in her journey toward self-discovery.
We were all heading somewhere.
+++
On its long meandering trek across the midlands, my old red fireball pulsated, shook and pleaded for a second wind. Landscapes changed with the tumbling odometer, while Baltimore waved in the rear view. The senseless charms and revelations of the road kept my lazy foot pressing on. Oblivious to traffic, and unwilling to make a distinction between the pavement and the desert made armadillos calming devices. These hard hat
She examined the key and passed it back.
“Do you believe this has something to do with your parents and how you might see yourself as the key to bringing them back together?”
It was a fair diagnosis.
chapter 8
long hard road home
“Are y' from around here, cailin? I don't believe we've met,” asked a handsome local bartender. The barman was working the late shift in EJ Morrissey's, off Dublin-Cork Road in Dublin, Ireland, testing a gal's ID and patience, before handing over a cool drink.
“I've always lived in the flats,” huffed a soft female voice. “Do you know the old prison museum in Kilmainham?”
“You're over in the suburbs, a couple miles out?” he prodded.
“Yes! Exactly, sham. I'll just end the suspense, I'm almost 18-years-young. Now, being that you've already served a hapless lass, there's really no sense making a scene or getting either of us into any senseless trouble,” she paused. “You know what, let's have another!”
“So your name is not Zane?” he asked, condoning her flirtation.
“No, it is, but I'm not 20, as the card suggests. Zane Brennan is my birthright. It basically means, bad arse feek,” she added, with blush. She didn't want to lose his trust, nor interest.
“Feek, huh? Modest, too?” he paused. “Why are you out drinking before milk and cookies?”
“Isn't there a commandment on the wall, over there, that says, 'Thou shall not drive through Abbeyleix without pausing in Morrissey's for a pint,'" Zane quipped.
“Yes! Believable, or not, you've got a fetching sass! Carry on.”
“My parents split, my best friend moved and I'm not having too much luck in love.”
“So, you're compensating?”
“I've dated around, but I'm not really attracted to the lads my age,” offered Zane, biting into a thick moment of still air. Her body language was a neon sign, stating, “You are exactly the right age!”
“Maybe I can join you for a drink, sometime?” he asked.
“That would be your treat!” she joked, with a wink. “I have to leave town, to visit family in the States, but I'm sure I'll find you passed out in the bogs, when I return.”
“Sounds like a date,” he risked.
“It's a date,” she confessed.
“I have better things to do than croak with the frogs,” he said, bidding her giddy hand farewell.
Zane was bedazzled, but painfully average. She rested comfortably in the security her tattooed cred and grandfather's worn military jacket provided and bathed in the bravado her combat boots added to a tragically hip and painfully ironic purple pixie haircut. A tiny silver hoop held onto her petite nose. She was a tomboy, posing as a punk rocker. By all accounts, a disgruntled middle class girl, crying out for attention. She was a novice in her journey toward self-discovery.
We were all heading somewhere.
+++
On its long meandering trek across the midlands, my old red fireball pulsated, shook and pleaded for a second wind. Landscapes changed with the tumbling odometer, while Baltimore waved in the rear view. The senseless charms and revelations of the road kept my lazy foot pressing on. Oblivious to traffic, and unwilling to make a distinction between the pavement and the desert made armadillos calming devices. These hard hat
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