close.
Close enough to make a person jump a little,
bump the wobbly table and maybe spill their beer into their lap. I managed to
grab the glass as it teetered, but not before half the contents washed in a
golden wave that shone briefly in the low light of the pub before soaking the
entire crotch of my jeans.
I may have let out a little cry of despair.
But I have to say, in retrospect, that this
wasn’t all bad. Because the young man Not-Really-Laoghaire had been talking to
thought it was his fault.
One minute I was staring in disbelief as my
only pair of jeans—with me in them—took on a look usually
associated with severe incontinence. And the next, a large young man was
swabbing my leg dry.
Very large.
With fair hair that might have been reddish
before it was highlighted.
I had barely a moment to think that this was
the closest thing I’d had to a sexual experience with a man in more than a
year, when he spoke. “Ach, I’m so sorry, Miss. My chair must’ve hit your table …”
“It’s—it’s okay,” I said, unwilling to
cop to the fact I’d spilled my own beer onto my own self. “It’s a wobbly
table,” I added, in a tiny concession to honesty.
He paused at the sound of my voice, handful
of soggy napkins in midair. “Ach, worse still—and you a visitor, too.”
His forehead crumpled with concern.
“Really, it’s okay. It woke me up. I’m
massively jetlagged, and I need my senses about me to make it back to the place
I’m staying.”
“That may be true,” he said, his big brown
eyes boring into mine. “But let me at least buy you another beer.”
I shook my head, but he was already waving
at the server. She waved back and he placed his large hands on the table and
shook it critically.
“Righ’,” he said. “I’ll just have a look …”
and vanished beneath the table.
In a second he bobbed up again. “That’s seen
it,” he said. “The ol’ beer mat solution.”
I peered into the gloom under the table, and
sure enough, he’d folded a couple of cardboard coasters and jammed them under
one of the table legs. I gave the table a shake. “I think you’ve got it.”
He smiled and blinked both his eyes at me.
“Trust me, Miss,” he said. “Ah’m a mechanic.”
I laughed. “Really?”
“That I am. And you—are an American.
Are ye a student?”
I nodded, and glanced over his shoulder. The
two girls he was with seemed oblivious to the fact he’d moved over to sit beside
me. They were deep in conversation; the dark-haired girl who had, just seconds
before, been shrieking with laughter was now openly weeping, eyeliner streaking
down her face.
“Yes, American, but not a student. Just here
visiting for a while. Is—is your friend okay?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Ach, she’s no’
really my friend. Friend of a friend, yeh ken? And a wee bit pickled for my tastes, for
all that. But tell us about yerself—whereabouts in America are ye from?
New York City?”
“Chicago, actually. It’s further …”
“West. Yeah, I know it. Jazz and blues,
Charlie Parker and the Bulls.”
I ogled him. “You follow basketball? I
thought it was only soccer over here—and cricket.”
He looked pained, and slapped a hand to his
heart. “Ach, don’t paint us with that brush. Pansy Englishmen’s game, that one.
Now, rugby—there’s a game a man can sink his teeth into. But yeah, next
to rugby, it’s the NBA all the way for me.”
He leaned back on his stool and looked at me
appraisingly. If I hadn’t been sleep-deprived and stinking of beer I probably
would have fainted on the spot, but even as it was, I had to fight the urge to
lick him. Tall, fair hair in an over-grown crew cut, warm brown eyes. The
sleeves of his sweater were rolled back over well-muscled forearms. The server
returned and dropped two fresh beer mats on the table, followed by a
replacement of my half pint and a pint of Guinness for him. He held up the beer
to me.
“To Michael Jordan and charming
Close enough to make a person jump a little,
bump the wobbly table and maybe spill their beer into their lap. I managed to
grab the glass as it teetered, but not before half the contents washed in a
golden wave that shone briefly in the low light of the pub before soaking the
entire crotch of my jeans.
I may have let out a little cry of despair.
But I have to say, in retrospect, that this
wasn’t all bad. Because the young man Not-Really-Laoghaire had been talking to
thought it was his fault.
One minute I was staring in disbelief as my
only pair of jeans—with me in them—took on a look usually
associated with severe incontinence. And the next, a large young man was
swabbing my leg dry.
Very large.
With fair hair that might have been reddish
before it was highlighted.
I had barely a moment to think that this was
the closest thing I’d had to a sexual experience with a man in more than a
year, when he spoke. “Ach, I’m so sorry, Miss. My chair must’ve hit your table …”
“It’s—it’s okay,” I said, unwilling to
cop to the fact I’d spilled my own beer onto my own self. “It’s a wobbly
table,” I added, in a tiny concession to honesty.
He paused at the sound of my voice, handful
of soggy napkins in midair. “Ach, worse still—and you a visitor, too.”
His forehead crumpled with concern.
“Really, it’s okay. It woke me up. I’m
massively jetlagged, and I need my senses about me to make it back to the place
I’m staying.”
“That may be true,” he said, his big brown
eyes boring into mine. “But let me at least buy you another beer.”
I shook my head, but he was already waving
at the server. She waved back and he placed his large hands on the table and
shook it critically.
“Righ’,” he said. “I’ll just have a look …”
and vanished beneath the table.
In a second he bobbed up again. “That’s seen
it,” he said. “The ol’ beer mat solution.”
I peered into the gloom under the table, and
sure enough, he’d folded a couple of cardboard coasters and jammed them under
one of the table legs. I gave the table a shake. “I think you’ve got it.”
He smiled and blinked both his eyes at me.
“Trust me, Miss,” he said. “Ah’m a mechanic.”
I laughed. “Really?”
“That I am. And you—are an American.
Are ye a student?”
I nodded, and glanced over his shoulder. The
two girls he was with seemed oblivious to the fact he’d moved over to sit beside
me. They were deep in conversation; the dark-haired girl who had, just seconds
before, been shrieking with laughter was now openly weeping, eyeliner streaking
down her face.
“Yes, American, but not a student. Just here
visiting for a while. Is—is your friend okay?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Ach, she’s no’
really my friend. Friend of a friend, yeh ken? And a wee bit pickled for my tastes, for
all that. But tell us about yerself—whereabouts in America are ye from?
New York City?”
“Chicago, actually. It’s further …”
“West. Yeah, I know it. Jazz and blues,
Charlie Parker and the Bulls.”
I ogled him. “You follow basketball? I
thought it was only soccer over here—and cricket.”
He looked pained, and slapped a hand to his
heart. “Ach, don’t paint us with that brush. Pansy Englishmen’s game, that one.
Now, rugby—there’s a game a man can sink his teeth into. But yeah, next
to rugby, it’s the NBA all the way for me.”
He leaned back on his stool and looked at me
appraisingly. If I hadn’t been sleep-deprived and stinking of beer I probably
would have fainted on the spot, but even as it was, I had to fight the urge to
lick him. Tall, fair hair in an over-grown crew cut, warm brown eyes. The
sleeves of his sweater were rolled back over well-muscled forearms. The server
returned and dropped two fresh beer mats on the table, followed by a
replacement of my half pint and a pint of Guinness for him. He held up the beer
to me.
“To Michael Jordan and charming
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