“But Mr. Gallagher, I’m not like that! I wasn’t raised to be a floozie! I’m not one of your Tipperary girls you can have your way with at the drop of a thickly cut spud. I wasn’t raised like that”
“Oh but I must have you Bridget, I simply must! You’re all I’ve been thinking about since we met at Noreen’s wake, God rest her. I’ve got it Bridget, I’ve got it bad!” He gets up from the table and comes closer to Bridget, who’s steely resolve is starting to crack.
“No Mr. Gallagher, please you must leave, I’m begging you. You know I can’t resist the smell of cigarette smoke and deep fried oil, and my Harry will be home any minute!”
Mr. Gallagher grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her close, and as he does she can’t deny the excitement she feels as he shakes her back and forth, shouting, “Oh balls to Harry! He doesn’t love you like I do, he can’t make you feel the things I can! Look me in the eye and tell me Bridget, tell me when was the last time he cooked you homemade chips? Hmm? When was the last time he fried you an egg to go with it!? HMM!? Not since before he married you, I can see it! The way you looked at that egg and chips, with a wanton longing I’ve not seen since Noreen, God rest her, saw Val Doonican, God rest him, performing in the parochial hall! That’s not a man, Bridget! That’s not even a good house guest”. With that he stopped shaking her.
He was right, of course. He was right and Bridget knew it. Her resolve was indeed slipping even further, she was dizzy from the smell of cigarette smoke and fried oil, from the ecstasy of freshly cooked homemade chips with white pepper on them and the hot cup of tea and the perfectly fried egg. But mostly she was dizzy from all the shaking and shouting. She fell to the floor exhausted. Mr. Gallagher grabs a plate from the table and falls to his knees in front of her. He puts the plate on the ground and picks up a deliciously thick chip, perfectly cooked and ever so slightly crispy at the edges and holds it up to Bridget.
“You are the egg Bridget, you are the egg to my chip. Your skin is this part here”, he gestures in a circular motion at the egg white, pointing with the chip, “perfectly white overall with a few brown bits because I cooked it a bit too long, but they’re the best bits anyway so I wouldn’t even worry. And the yolk,” he slowly caresses the yolk with the tip of the chip, before penetrating the glistening membrane, causing the viscous orange fluid to cascade down the sides and soak the other chips, “represents my enduring love for you, among other things”
That was it. She was gone. Any hope Bridget held of resisting her natural urges had been dashed like the membrane on that perfectly orange yolk. She was his. She slowly gets to her feet, and takes Mr. Gallagher by the hand, helping him to his. Without saying a word she leads him up the stairs, where they make love unremarkably for a few minutes.
It was then, that Harry returned…