“Couldn’t believe it when 4-5-4 wouldn’t open the stupid thing!”
Moira’s wide sweeping gesture very nearly knocked her glass of Carlsberg off the little round table. Paul moved his chair away from her and a little closer to Ally hoping to minimise the risk of getting beer stains onto his new beige designer jeans.
He was just about to ask Ally if she was alright when Moira leant over towards him, once again creating a beer stain danger zone in his space.
“You didn’t hear what happened to me yesterday, sure you didn’t?”
And off she was again with her story as to how she’d unwittingly caught a Dublin garda officer’s attention when seemingly trying to steal a bike that wasn’t hers. Identical make and colour, secured with identical and pretty battered looking orange number lock. And of course she’d thought it to be hers even after 4-5-4 wouldn’t open the lock and had started asking passers-by if they could help her force that rusty thing open.
Paul let her go on and on with her story and smiled suitably whilst stealing little side glances at Ally who seemed not just bored but downright depressed.
“You are so not my soul mate,” she had mumbled this morning, still half in dreamland and barely awake long after the alarm clock had gone off. He hadn’t paid any attention to her then but now he was wondering if Ally’s gloom and doom was somehow all his fault again, even though he couldn’t think of anything much he could have done terribly wrong this time.
Only little things maybe, like when putting the dishes away last night he had most likely not put everything into its perfectly right place. A vision of Ally’s red tea mug on the top shelf instead of the bottom one crossed his mind, but there was nothing major he could think of.
He hadn’t missed her birthday again, or had he! Paul exhaled deeply at the relief of assuring himself that he hadn’t committed that biggie at least.
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2012