A Night Of Passion

ONE Clodagh KLO-Da. The ‘gh’ is silent. Like Yoda with a cl. New York, home to Broadway, bagels, and billionaires. Lots of billionaires. Everyone’s on their A game here. Who wouldn’t want a slice of that Big Apple pie? I’m here for mine. Back in my Irish seaside village, I dreamed of this slice. I knew what to expect. Yoga in Central Park at dawn. Breakfast at Magnolia Bakery. Cocktails at the top of the Rockefeller Center. Waking up in a penthouse suite at The Plaza hotel with a brooding six-foot-something gazillionaire’s head between my legs who insists I soak in his hot tub, but only after he delivers multiple five-star orgasms. “Clodagh.” “What?” I jerk my head up from wiping Guinness-marinated crisps off the hardwood bar top to see my best friend Orla’s smug smile. She stops sweeping for a moment. “It’s your turn to do the men’s.” Gah. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I bark. Here’s another fact about New York—it’s also home to hundreds of Irish bars. You’re never more than a block away from one. Irish bars with men who operate their d***s like heavy-duty fire hoses after a few pints. I eyeball the three lads propped on stools along the bar. Their clothes are covered in dust from their construction jobs because the closest thing the pub has to a dress code is no guns. Liam, Declan, and Aidan—regulars at The Auld Dog, the small Queens-based Irish bar Orla and I have worked in for three months. Nice guys in their late twenties. They smile back shamelessly. They’re on their third pint each, and I know they’ve left a war zone for me to clean. They know it, and I know it. Every evening, they sit on the same barstools. Never changing stools. Never changing drinks. Never changing Irish bars. What’s the point of moving to New York to spend every night in the same Irish bar, with the same Irish people, drinking the same Irish drinks? I don’t get it. I’ve wanted to live in New York for as long as I can remember. Not on the outskirts, either. Right bang in the heart of the Big Apple, Manhattan, strutting around the streets in Manolo Blahniks and flashing a well-shaved leg to hail down a yellow cab. In reality, since Orla and I moved to Queens from Ireland a few months ago, I’ve spent 95 percent of my time working at Orla’s Uncle Sean’s pub, arguing with Orla about whose turn it is to change the barrel or fumigate the men’s toilets. I wear sports shoes since Manolos are beyond my budget, and even if I could afford them, I’d be waddling like a penguin. But that 5 percent, when I see a glimpse of glitzy New York, the life I imagined back in Ireland? Priceless. Like the glitzy Manhattanite who has just walked into the bar. The guy looks in his mid-fifties, at a guess, and is wearing an expensive blue suit. People only visit the pub in suits if they’ve been to a funeral. An authentic, no-frills Irish experience is what Sean sells. He’s the kind of man Mam would lose her s**t over. Granny Deirdre, too. Do handlebar mustaches and comb-overs become a turn-on at a certain age? Call me superficial, but those aren’t things I want between my legs. I see the exact moment the mild stench of stale beer and old-man smell wafts up his nostrils. Orla stops sweeping, gawks at the newcomer in the doorway, then turns to me with wide eyes. I roll my eyes as she hurries behind the bar to join me. While the guy screams tips, she couldn't have been any more obvious if she jumped onto the counter and did a victory dance. He scans the pub, taking in the Irish football jerseys lining the walls, the flags, and the road signs telling you how many miles you are from Ireland. All part of Uncle Sean’s interior design strategy to fill every inch of the pub with reminders of home. He approaches the bar, making sure his sleeves don't brush the countertop. I don my most professional smile. One wasted on Liam, Declan, and Aidan. “Hi, sir. How can I help?” “What type of wine do you have?” “Red,”—I pause—“or white.” He thinks I’m joking. “We only have one type of each. The house red or white. It’s not really a wine drinker’s bar,” I elaborate a tad defensively. I side-eye Orla for support. What does the guy expect? “Sorry.” “We have an extensive range of stouts and the best Guinness in New York,” Orla pipes up with wildly unfounded claims. The small number of beer taps is the giveaway. Mr. Suit exhales loudly, blowing air out his plump cheeks. “I’ll have a… Guinness, please.” “Coming right up!” I lift a pint glass from the shelf and tilt it to the pump as I sneak a glance at Mr. Suit. What’s his deal? He must be having a bad day if he needs a drink so bad that he can’t wait to get over the bridge to Manhattan and its selection of more appealing wines. Not that bars in Queens don’t stock good wine, but wine connoisseurs aren’t Uncle Sean’s target market. The Auld Dog sells stout to guys watching Gaelic football and Liverpool FC. You only drink The Auld Dog’s wine if you’re drinking to forget. I talk about Sean like he’s my uncle because Orla and I have been friends since we were in nappies. Or diapers, as I’m used to saying now. After nearly three months in New York, I think I’m good at American lingo. “Bad day?” I ask, sneaking another glance at him as I pull the tap handle forward. He grunts in response. I smile. I understand the bartender’s code. Don’t f*****g talk to me. No one speaks again as we wait for the Guinness to settle. I lift the glass under the spout to fill the head to the rim, then place the pint in front of him. “There you are, sir. Served like in Dublin.” It’s not. I’m a mediocre bartender. “Thanks.” I’m rewarded with a dry smile as he passes over a platinum credit card etched with his name. With his Guinness in his hand, Mr. Suit takes one look at the guys on the stools and walks to an empty table beside the window. Orla pouts, disappointed. Anyone sitting at the bar is fair game, but if you interrupt someone trying to have a quiet pint alone, you’re an ass. “What do you think he’s doing here?” she murmurs. My gaze flickers back to Mr. Suit. One leg is crossed over the other, ankle over knee. His dark brows pull together as he scowls down at his phone resting on his thigh. “Visiting relatives in Queens?” I whisper. Orla hums, unconvinced. “Maybe he has a mistress in Queens.” I smirk. “Maybe he’s looking for a mistress in Queens.” Liam clears his throat. “Another one, Clodagh. When you’re ready.” He uses an unnecessarily husky tone. His gaze catches mine, and he stares back unblinking. This weird tension is all because I saw Liam’s p***s a few weeks after I moved to New York. About to ovulate, I was feeling horny, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now whenever I look at Liam, I see that wild glint in his eye that tells me he wants to wife me and make ten babies. And even though he vaguely resembles the new Superman when I squint, I know it’ll mean a lifetime of missionary position.