A languid ceiling fan stirs the warm, smoky air. At this late hour, the bar—well, the shack—is half empty. A jazz quartet at the far end, behind a veil of blue-lit cigar haze, beats out old songs on autopilot.
She caught my attention the moment I walked in last week. Her looks, the way she moved as she turned to serve me. Someone I might have known my whole life.
“What’ll yer have, hun?” Often it’s hard to tell the island patois from an Irish accent, but she sounded like home to me. A traditional floral cotton dress wrapped her graceful form.
“Rum. Neat.” Reaching to the shelf, she uncorked a plain bottle holding a dark amber liquid. After pouring my shot, she replaced it behind her, knocking over a dusty old sports trophy. She picked it up and studied it, turning back with a sigh.
After that first night, a nod sufficed; I didn’t find any excuse to speak with her. She was always too busy serving, collecting glasses, dealing with eejits. Tonight, a drunken tourist leans across the bar, talking at her.
“Yes, from Looo-beck…” You could see she’d heard it all before, every dumb line. The state of him, though.
The air is quare hot—humid, but I’ve since grown accustomed to it. A breeze outside shakes the palm fronds and carries in the fragrance of blossoming plants. The evening is flying past, but what could I say to her? She’d take me for just another heartsick stranger. It’s Wednesday night and the flight leaves early tomorrow. With my bag stashed under the table, this is my very last chance.
Around midnight, the tourist staggers out into the darkness. I seize the opening, but as I cross to the bar, a yell erupts, furniture scrapes. She hurries off to settle things. Returning, she lifts the bottle and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. I smile back. The sweet liquor burns my throat as I drown that particular sorrow.
The hour is getting late. She empties the till, stacks chairs on tables. The band packs up their tunes, then their instruments, leaving the beat of the ventilator to play on alone. When I lift my head, the bar is empty; she’d disappeared. I’ve missed my chance, and now it’s time to go.
I signal to Joe, the Rasta taxi man, at his usual spot beneath the unseeing window panes.
“Where you headin’ to?” Again, that echo of an accent.
I heft my bag. “Airport, flight to Dublin.”
“I watched you. You never axed her nor nuttin’?” He holds the door. We step out into the warm brine-seasoned night.
Over the faint chorus of cric-ket, cric-ket, cric-ket, I reply, “Maybe next year.”
His spliff glows. “Ya, your mammy’ll be here for you.” I stop and stare at him.
Every morning of my childhood, I’d seen the spit of that trophy in my aunt’s kitchen. In Clongeen, the twins were under-sixteen Camogie champions, before I was born.
© 2024 R.O. Phillips
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