Confessional
Green-envy, free pint, and self-loathing at The Blarney Stone Pub.
[POST #4 IN MY 5-DAY MEDIUM EXPERIMENT (that should be #5 if you’re into counting). Something different here — a short story!]
I see him from across the bar. He appears Irish — ruddy-faced, blue-eyed, dark-haired, likely drunk — or maybe it’s just I’m at The Blarney Stone Pub tickling my subconscious, as I’ve recently read Angela’s Ashes, which makes the truth of my full, green-blooded Irish heritage, despite distaste for soggy fish and chips, undeniable. Driven by subconscious after four vodka cranberries (Cape Cod at a more upscale locale) I am one spastic potent cocktail of Irish limerick want, sweating the Texas heat though the sun has been down for hours.
From evening’s beginning, Jessica is stunning, men surround like Pall Mall ad, keen and able, lighting her smoke. She is full feminine assurance, eye contact each contestant to goad competition, content in body summer fresh and slight even after two kids, one a fucking cesarean.
Me, tall, sweaty, Irish freckled; curly redhead outright oafish towering beside this pixie. She’s honey skin, ocean blue American eyes…
