Chagrin Confessions

Chapter Four: The Irish Pub

Entering Dill's pub, I find myself dazed at the large number of New Yorkers packed at the bar. Happy hour for the ladies is a call for two things. One, the ladies, obviously. And two, the men hunting for the ladies.

A football game is displayed at the four screens placed on the wall above the drinks. The traditional  atmosphere of the bar is comforting and easy on the eye. The bar itself is wooden, spotless and decorated with miniature Irish figurines, such as leprechauns, green gnomes and clovers. The wooden high chairs at the bar are padded with red cushions, and the wall decor consist of various paintings and logos football teams, though mostly the Oakland Raiders. The owner is probably their number one fan. Nothing but love and spirit for the black and silver raiders here.

I search the bar for my petite yet curvaceous friend. Spotting her sitting by the bar, I notice the red-head bartender chatting her up. Her honey-coloured skin glimmers on her voluptuous figure. Her long jet black hair in waves down her back, and her brown doe-like eyes exuding false innocence. Although dressed in a simple A-line bodycon, the curves she's been blessed with draws the attention of most the men in the pub.

Heading towards her, I make my way through the crowd of half-drunk women at the bar, who are yelling and screaming like banshees for their drinks. One of the perks of being a regular here is that the bartender knows you well.

Huffing, I sit on the empty seat next to her, she probably scratched a few eyeballs to save it for me. “What the fuck is wrong with having a simple cup of coffee in a quiet café somewhere?”

She looks at me as though I've grown a second head. “Are you mad, woman? Happy hour at Dill's. Drink your fucking coffee here, but one does not miss happy hour at Dill's.”

“Coffee at a bar? Do I look like a nun?”

She takes a long gaze up and down my outfit, scrunching up her nose in annoyance. “More like a grumpy, old librarian with thirty cats. What the actual fuck are you wearing? How are you going to be my wing-girl dressed like that?”

I roll my eyes and ignore her insult. We've never been on the same wavelength when it comes to fashion.

“Seriously, Cass, undo your top two buttons and let your inner Cleo out. Also, let your hair down, I need you at your best-" she pauses, "Well...half best.”

Fun fact: Nova is one of the only two people who knows my alias.

The second is Major General Henderson.

I flip her the bird, and undo one button. “I won't let my hair down. I didn't comb it today so just ignore it.” Turning towards the familiar red-headed bartender, I call out to him. “Jerry! I need a double shot of espresso here, please!”

Nova gasps, and shouts out back, “Fuck that, Jerry. Get my girl a Whiskey Sour! I can't believe that you were actually going to get coffee here.”

Jerry gives me a questioning look, obviously waiting for a confirmation, “Do you want a Whiskey Sour, love?”

“No, thanks, Jer-Bear. Just the espresso please.”

Nova snorts, “Jerry, she needs a stronger drink, trust me.”

Jerry looks at us, taking in our scowling faces and glares, and sighs, “Tell you what, love, how about an Irish coffee?”

We both turn to look at him, I nod in confirmation while Nova rolls her eyes. It's a compromise I'm willing to accept.

“’kay, you've got two minutes to give me your daily deets, then we go hunt me some meat” she says, while flipping her hair over her shoulder.