It started like it always did, a sunny afternoon.
“In for one, two at the most”.
He almost believed his own lies. But the bar filled up with faces, and the table filled up with empties. Before they knew it the afternoon turned to evening, evening to night. Sun to moon. They were lost.
Lost in the fun of it all, the novelty. Lost in a gathering of elusive friends, old and new. Lost in the run of themselves. Hours lost in pints, minutes lost in gulps, seconds in sips.
Lost.
“I’ll get these, it’s my round anyway so it is!”, said Damien as he stood up from the table, “let me just squeeze past you there…”
He stood at the bar and waited his turn, swaying slightly as he steadied himself against the counter.
“What can I get you?”, asks the barman over the noisy crowd.
“Two stout, a Bulmer’s, one G&T, one G no T, a Jamie and ice, a wee pinot grigio, don’t need a glass, four Sambuca and a tequila! Good man, I’ll be back I need a pish!”, and he stumbled through the crowd and into the toilets.
But he was not alone.
“Craics tonight?”, said the stranger next to him.
“Yes there! Few quiet ones you know yourself. Finish these then it’s off to the offie for a wee night cap you know yourself…”
“You’ll want to get a move on pal…”
He stopped dead mid way through washing his hands and turned to the stranger, who was standing at the urinal.
“What did you say…?”, said Damien, his brow furrowed in alarm and confusion.
“Hai?”, said the stranger, confused.
Damien springs towards him, grabbing him by the lapels. “What time is it!?”, he shouts in the stranger’s face.
“Hai, sir! I’m pishing here! What are ye at!?”
“The time!”, shouts Damien, oblivious to the stranger’s urine soaking his shoes.
“It’s ten te ten! Get aff me!”
Damien releases the man and runs out to the bar, his undried hands dripping, his freshly soaked shoes squelching. He grabs Bridget from her seat and runs to the door, knocking the table of empty glasses with a thunderous smash. They step onto the main street as a roar of applause for the broken glass erupts behind them.
“Damien!”, she exclaims, “what’s going on, what happened!?”
“We got lost Bridget, that’s what happened!”
“Lost? What are you talking about?”
Damien lifts her arm up, holding her watch to her face.
“…oh God…”, Bridget says, dismayed.
“You must go”, says Damien, staring with a furious intent, “you must do the offie run!”
“But Damien, I’m absolutely hammered, I’ll never make it!”
“I’ve just ordered for the whole table, they’ll never be able to carry it al! It must be you Bridget, it must be you!”
Bridget looks at Damien, looks into his burning eyes. She steels herself, she breathes, she stands tall.
“Alright, I’ll go.”
“That’s my girl”, says Damien, and he pulls her close and kisses her passionately. “Now go, you don’t have much time.”
Damien watches as Bridget, the mother of his children, disappears into the night, unsure if her return will bare sweet reward, or bitter disappointment. Will she do it, or will he have to pay through the nose for a carry out from the bar? He didn’t know. All he knew is that there was a round waiting to be paid for, that the weight of responsibility to the table inside was bigger than him, that his feet were sodden with pish, and that he was in love.
He looked into the night.
“…that’s my girl…”
