I go outside on the pretense of a phone call, not able to take the sweat and drumm of the pub for a few short moments. I sit on the ledge and watch the traffic, counting the 09 cars and noting the numbers inside.
Blonde. Foxrock. A present from Daddy.
Blonde. Booterstown. A present from Daddy.
Tall. Crouching over the whell. Glasses. Just made partner.
Family. Picture perfect. Weekend in Wexford.
I make a call, I'm here anyway, but he isn't home. Gone to the shops and he'd call me back. I walk to the traffic lights and back again and to the traffic lights further up the road, and back again.
I return to the ledge, the sill of the public house shell with The Beatles being murdered inside, thinking how long I could stay out here talking to nobody before I'll have to go back and pretend badly, once more, to be interesting.
I note two separate couples drinking outside to my right, the nearest two in the funk of an argument and I can just about make them out to be Welsh.
The other couple are watching me watching people watching the road waiting for me to take to it, to get as far away from this place as possible.
My phone rings.
"Hi. You rang?"
"Yeah, I did, but I forget what I was looking for. I'm just out having the craic, can I call you back?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No, not yet, but I might be soon."
"Well, mind yourself. Call me later. Drunk or not. Will you remember this conversation?"
"Yes, yeah, I will."
"Love you too."
The fighting Welsh have become two glasses on the metal table, half spilled and dripping. I put my face back on and go inside.