A short night in Dublin...

I was sitting in Temple Bar, a small pub in Dublin working on my first Irish coffee listening to some traditional Irish Folk Music when I spotted her at a table in the far corner. She was a fine looking Irish lass, long wavy red hair, sparkling green eyes, a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Well, okay, I couldn’t actually see all that since she was so far away, and cigarette smoke hung heavy on the air.

I wondered why a lass such as herself was alone, but since I was just now finishing my first cup of liquid courage, I knew it would be a while before I might be able to find out. And, with my luck, by then, if I could still see her, she would probably not be alone.

I drained the first cup, running my finger around the insides to ensure there was not a trace of Bailey’s flavored cream left trapped inside.

The evening progressed as I stared at her, giving her traits of and the personality of a sensuous saint, a woman who knew how to create a heaven on earth for this lonely male.

Not once, but many times, as I drank my next Irish coffee, I watched hopeful male after hopeful male approach her table only to leave after a short time, faces a blazing red colour, while hers remained unmoving, save for a slight smile I thought I detected as each one left.

I finished my second coffee. The music the band was playing was beginning to sound like a herd of cows crashing through a field of tin cans. The heads of the people around me were becoming large, fuzzy, balls bobbing and weaving to the sounds of the noise.

I tried to focus on the woman of my dreams. She was still there, still alone. One more cup of liquid courage should do it, I figured, and requested same from a passing waiter.

Now I was having trouble seeing her. Someone had started making the room tilt one way and then another, the customers moving all around me in a circular motion making me dizzy.

Another swallow, a big one this time. Now, I told myself go! I stood, fastened my eyes on her and began the long journey to her table. It was not easy as there were more and more people pushing at me, spinning me around and around, but perseverance paid off, and I was there, standing in front of her, reaching out to take her hand in mine when all of a sudden she fell over and lay flat on the floor as if run over by a steamroller!

I gasped, terrified I had somehow killed her until one of the waiters reached down and stood up the cardboard cutout of an Irish lass advertizing the hand soap to use on your next trip to the loo.

The above is fiction, except for being in the Temple Bar in Dublin, which I have been, and the Irish coffee that I experienced in a nice restaurant, also in Dublin. I based the effect of the coffee in the story on having the one at the restaurant. It was really potent!