Free Mismatched by Elle Casey, Amanda McKeon

—well her — Prada jacket, so that I have to stop too. We’re facing each other, standing at the top of the hill that leads down into the tiny town of Doolin. The houses are all multi-coloured and I can already identify the three pubs that make the town a town.
    “Look, Erin, I don’t know what’s come over you, but we don’t need drugs to have a good time. We always have lively conversations.” She gives me a reassuring smile and folds her arms. I stare back blankly at her. “And anyway, ninety euros is waaay too expensive.” She says this as though that’s what would steer me clear of my secret drug habit.
    “ Craic agus ceoil , Ridlee. It means fun and music. Ninety refers to the high level of fun to be had. Mrs. O'Grady assured us that the fun would be great. No drugs. Whad’ya take me for?”
    “Ooohhh… I see.” She grins big. “Well, let’s go have some crack then!” And with that she loops her arm through mine and starts skipping down the hill.
    It’s as quiet as a tomb when we get inside the first pub. An old man is standing behind the bar reading the local newspaper. He looks up at us as we enter.
    “Fuck, he’s seen us,” I say under my breath to Ridlee. “We have to have a drink here now.” My excitement plummets. It’s like when you pick the wrong line in the supermarket. In my mind I can see the other two pubs, bursting at the seams with people having more craic than they’ve ever had in their lives, and here we are in the graveyard of pubs.
    “Well, well, well. Aren’t you a pair of lovely ladies. What can I get ye?” Ever so slowly he shuffles to our end of the bar. It’s like watching someone in slow motion. Ridlee and I stand there, smiling to beat the band.
    “What’s this, the oldest barman in Ireland?” asks Ridlee through gritted teeth. She’s always prided herself on her ventriloquist skills.
    “No, I believe the oldest barman works in Lahinch—not too far from here, m’dear,” he says reaching our end. Ridlee actually blushes, a first for her.
    “Ahh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” she stammers.
    “Not-ta-tall! Not-ta-tall! Sure, it’s old I am. No gettin’ away from that fact. Eighty-two next birthday.” He says this with the kind of pride peculiar to the very old and the very young when giving their age. “Or is it eighty-three? I can never remember…” He shakes his head, leaning on the beer taps in front of him, lost for a moment.
    We wait patiently.
    “Not to worry, doesn’t matter.” He looks up at us. “Well, I’m not gettin’ any younger standin’ here. What can I get you lovely ladies?”
    “Eh, do you sell wine?” asks Ridlee eagerly. I have warned her that small, out-of-the-way pubs tend to do beer, stout, and hard liquor well but that wine can be a bit hit and miss, but she persists anyway.
    “Indeed I do, young lady. Indeed I do.”
    Ridlee stands there beaming at him.
    He beams back.
    Time passes.  
    “Umm, could I see the wine list please?” she asks.
    “No need for a list, m’dear. It’s all up here.” He points a curled finger to his temple.
    “Fabulous! Well, do you have…?” begins Ridlee, but the barman cuts her off.
    “…We have eh, red wine,” he counts off his fingers, “and eh, white wine, but not the mixed kind.”
    “Rosé,” I offer helpfully, grinning at my friend. It’s Ridlee’s dream to own a vineyard some day; she takes her wine very seriously.
    “Wonderful,” she says with way too much enthusiasm. “I think I’ll have…,” she contemplates the bar for a moment, “…a pint of Guinness.”
    “Make that two,” I add. “And could you put a drop of blackcurrant in my friend’s pint? She’s still acquiring the taste for the black stuff.”
    “Right ye are," answers the barman winking at me. “Have a seat and sure I’ll drop them down to ye.”
    I walk after Ridlee, then pause and turn back to him. “Excuse me for asking, but you wouldn’t happen to know a Padraig Flanagan would