Jack
For a little while, I let Teresa lead. Things seem to be happening here that are beyond my control, and so, for now, I let them happen.
I let myself melt while this beautiful girl, who is so mad about me, dances me around the room.
And I am happy. Limp-bodied, lightheaded, and feeling love from this new friend of mine.
She has fallen for me at my worst. Just imagine how happy I would make her if I could get back to my best.
I think I could probably sway with her like this all night.
But in the corner of the room, I see Bill Nevan talking in her father’s ear.
And when our third song ends, Ger makes his way to us.
She sighs, and a weight lands on my back.
Her father, slapping me up straight. His booming voice and straining shirt buttons.
‘Well, Mr O’Leary. You’re after a bit of bar work, I hear.’
Bill stands in the corner, watching, pleased with himself for working his supposed magic again. I wouldn’t be intimidated by Ger if I wasn’t so bewildered by his daughter.
‘’Tis your Teresa wants me working in the pub.’
I say, trying to laugh, trying to seem like an equal. My hand still holding her back. It seems inappropriate to hold on and inappropriate to let go.
‘She’s dead right. A man should work.’
I suppose he is sizing me up as a match for his daughter. This was always a risk.
‘I’ll start you on the days and we’ll see how you get on. Come down at twelve tomorrow in a good shirt.’
He looks at Teresa, and then back at me, as though he is warning us of something. As quickly as he arrived, he is gone. She squeals, she giggles. I love these light, girlish noises. For a minute I don’t really mind what just happened, because she seems so happy.
‘Ah, Jack! This will be so much fun!’
I smile, not only to please her, but because I really can’t help it.
Her happiness seems to bleed into me. It has been so nice to have a friend.
Let’s chance it, so. Let’s see where it gets us.
At the very least, I’ll have a wage coming in again, so I can stand on my own two feet a bit more. Okay. It might be good.
The only trouble is I’ve no nice shirt.
‘How nice is a nice shirt by your father’s standards?’
I ask, but she only laughs at me.