12
Mr. O’Hannigan. 6 March 1971.
Connor O’Hannigan returned nine minutes later with two paper cups, each three-quarters filled with coffee. The rest had spilled over his hands. He handed over the cups, shook his hands, and wiped them dry with a white, ironed handkerchief from his trouser pocket.
He remained unapologetic at the reduced contents of the cups, stating that the coffee shop was at the far side of the square, and not all the women out there were ladies, you know.
Both women whispered their thanks as they felt the eyes of their sisters around them, who were trying to listen to whatever the next speaker had to say.
“My pleasure.” He was immune to the glaring eyes surrounding them. “I didn’t know, so I added two sugars to each. I thought it quite brave of you two, well actually
