In a Belfast bar

“Ock! The experience is just the seed,” he says, “The story. Well, echhh, the story, ‘icc, that’s, ccup, the tree.” 

He pulls a vigorous drag off the arse-end of his cigarette. His eyes are bleary as sunken ships. He pulls the fag so hard, the glowing cherry pops out. It flares a tiny bottle rocket arch before dying in a gray splash next to four drained pint glasses. 

“Or. Ya know. If you wanna get, hiccup, Ulster-spe… ‘ccup, Ulster-specific, the Gorse bush, the hill, arpth, of heather, hiccup, the Hawthorne, the Elder, couck hiccuck, the Bramble, hiccup, whatever rips your fancy. Arsch-hic-hiccup.” 

“I’d like to rip her fancy,” I silently leer as delicate fingers with poison apple red nails and a mottled alabaster palm grasp the Bullhouse tap in front of me. She is a wee lass, maybe 5’2″ on a good day. Her hair is raven, cut in bangs.  The back flows in languid waves just past her shoulders. Her eyes are dark shimmering pools. I want to dive in. But I,  and every  man in the place, know better. A few strokes in her fairy pools could well be your last. The undertow is brutal. 

She drops the fresh pint on the counter. The four dead glasses chime like a shop door when  she swipes them into a black bus tub.  

“Aye, Seamus,” she sings, “this ye last one tonight, or this big yank here’za hafta carry youz’ome on ‘is back.”

“Aye, Aoife,” he chuckles amid a hacking cough, “Aoiffe. cough. hack. This geezer’s from Texas. He ken ‘andle anythin’.” 

“Aye.” She bewitches me with those deep pools. Her brow twitches at me. “Ize’ll bet thare’s a lot ‘ee ken ‘andle.” 

A schoolboy grin oozes from my face and drips West Texas Crude all over the counter. My heart zings and flutters. Her once over, twice down makes Betty Davis look like Doris Day. I shake my head as if to say ‘Sorry. I’m in over me head.’  Aoiffe’s eyes pour sauce on me.  She goes to town with a knife and fork as she parades to the other end of the bar. She side-eyes me with liquid lasers all along the route. I cover my face from nose to chin with my right hand. I’m mad-dash trying not to look like the raving lech I am. I fail. I’m sure she’s used to it. I’m sure she could punch me across the room. I’m sure I’d like it…. a lot.

Aoiffe is no ordinary lass. She’s a Belfast lass. Belfast is no place for the ordinary.