I see his shock of red follicle growth and flash of teeth out the corner of my eye. Their whispers are hiding beneath a layer of the Fighting Irish and the Fighting Irish are hiding beneath a layer of fiddle. He and his pals are plotting. My friend has deserted me to cackle atop the resident brass horse. The front man is busying himself tormenting the crowd with two fingers on one hand and one on the other. You can buy two of their albums and get one free. They’re teaching you to jig with the aid of a chimpanzee on VHS. Friend settles back on stool and Red’s throat is coated with another shot. He approaches us in his V-neck. “What would you like, girls?”. He pulls up his jumper to release several falling citron. I glance from his freckled face to the lemons and limes rolling on the floor with laughter to my friend’s amused grin. Red gathers his offspring and scuttles away. I bowl the remainder to him across the bar.
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