By Lisabet Sarai
A raw gust off the harbor sliced through my jacket. I needed a drink. I always needed a drink after dropping the boys at their mom’s.
Inside, The Harp was a sea of green. Behind the bar, Mike poured grass-colored beer.
“Sean! What’ll it be?”
“Bushmills, neat. A double.”
I pushed through the raucous crowd to my usual booth in the back.
“Can I join you?”
The black-clad girl nodded. A plump, copper-hued plait hung over her shoulder.
My whiskey burned, sweet and strong.
“Seems you’re dressed for Halloween, not St. Pat’s.”
“A funeral.” She flashed a sad smile. “My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Left me for a guy, then died of AIDs. ”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“Never mind.” She leaned closer. “Kiss me.”
“I don’t even know you!”
“I’m Irish. What else do you need to know?”
Her mouth captured mine. Meanwhile she palmed my thickening rod.
“Mmm.” She dragged my hand to her lap. “You touch me, too.”
Her skirt parted. My fingers found soft, damp fur.
Startled, I broke our kiss to inspect her pussy. I expected gingery curls. Instead, her pubes were bright green.
“What the hell?”
Giggling, she unzipped me. “I hoped I’d get lucky.”