I was chatting away, attention focused on my audience, when suddenly she presented herself in front of me. Presented, like a puppy in expectation of a bellyrub.
"Hi" she beamed up at me. "Um" said I, which is becoming my customary greeting these days, as my wits slowly desert me. I gave her an encouraging smile, assuming that I had met her before, or elbowed her drink, stood on her hair or inadvertently chatted up her boyfriend. "Are you from Ireland?" she asked, which threw me a little, though on reflection is a reasonable opener in multicultural Dublin. "Yes!" I beamed, relieved to be able to answer her question with absolute conviction. "I am from Sweden!" she beamed right back, so I told her how the Swede is also from Sweden, dazzling her with my grasp of geography. She didn't seem terribly interested, didn't ask his name in case she knew him, but perhaps that's an Irish thing. "Are you from Dublin?" she asked then, her blue eyes widening and her blonde curls bobbing in time with her breasts. "Yes!" I replied, again, puzzled if pleased that my affirmative answers were so pleasing to her. "You're beautiful" she said, and I blushed. "I love the colour of your hair. Can I touch it?" Sure, I told her, amused that the colour of my hair could be perceived as anything other than nondescript in the dim light of Whelans, even more amused that she'd want to fondle my curls. In their current state, they look like they might bite. She stood on tiptoe and raised her hand to touch them, then asked if she could hug me. At this stage she could have asked me for my pint and my shoes and I'd probably have acquiesced, confused and bemused as I was. So I hugged her, caught my friend's grin over her shoulder and then watched her wander off into the crowd, no doubt to make some other girl's night.
"Hi" she beamed up at me. "Um" said I, which is becoming my customary greeting these days, as my wits slowly desert me. I gave her an encouraging smile, assuming that I had met her before, or elbowed her drink, stood on her hair or inadvertently chatted up her boyfriend. "Are you from Ireland?" she asked, which threw me a little, though on reflection is a reasonable opener in multicultural Dublin. "Yes!" I beamed, relieved to be able to answer her question with absolute conviction. "I am from Sweden!" she beamed right back, so I told her how the Swede is also from Sweden, dazzling her with my grasp of geography. She didn't seem terribly interested, didn't ask his name in case she knew him, but perhaps that's an Irish thing. "Are you from Dublin?" she asked then, her blue eyes widening and her blonde curls bobbing in time with her breasts. "Yes!" I replied, again, puzzled if pleased that my affirmative answers were so pleasing to her. "You're beautiful" she said, and I blushed. "I love the colour of your hair. Can I touch it?" Sure, I told her, amused that the colour of my hair could be perceived as anything other than nondescript in the dim light of Whelans, even more amused that she'd want to fondle my curls. In their current state, they look like they might bite. She stood on tiptoe and raised her hand to touch them, then asked if she could hug me. At this stage she could have asked me for my pint and my shoes and I'd probably have acquiesced, confused and bemused as I was. So I hugged her, caught my friend's grin over her shoulder and then watched her wander off into the crowd, no doubt to make some other girl's night.
