Free Mismatched by Elle Casey, Amanda McKeon Page B

eejit!” I giggle, reaching down to help her to her feet before she muddies her five hundred dollar jeans. I feel better now that she’s debased herself in order to make me laugh.
    There are more people milling around as we come into the town. I stop a young fella of about fourteen or fifteen and ask him where McMahon’s Pub is. I’ve heard that they have great traditional Irish music there.
    He points down the road. “Do ye see the post office there?”
    “Yeah.” I nod in the direction of the post office.
    “Well, ignore that. Don’t mind that. Just keep walkin’ till you come to a small thatch building. That’s McMahons. Are ye joining the session?” He looks round me for any sign of an instrument.
    “Eh, probably not. Just gonna’ listen, I think,” I say, half apologetically.
    “Grand, so. Well have a great night.” And with that he tips his hat and keeps going.
    “Jesus, it’s like going back in time.” Ridlee stares after the guy.
    “Come on.” I take her arm and jauntily head in the direction of McMahons.
    Each time we pass someone, Ridlee tips an imaginary hat and says ‘top of the mornin’ to ye’, even though it’s clearly the evening. The Guinness has gone to her head.
    McMahons is teeming with people, and the session is in full swing. Squeezing our way up to the bar, we order a couple of pints of Guinness and some peanuts. One side of the pub is reserved for musicians, while everyone else gathers around clapping and cheering. There’s a guy with a banjo, a woman playing the violin or fiddle — I never can tell the difference — another bloke on guitar, two people with tin-whistles, and even a young girl with a set of uillean pipes. We get lucky and squeeze into two seats just vacated, right beside the musicians.
    “Ooh, look! Bagpipes!” cries Ridlee.
    “Not bagpipes, uillean pipes!” I yell over the music.
    “Oh.” She sips happily on her pint, tapping her foot to the music.
    The group is really good; they play well together. It can be potluck at a session. Anyone can join in and often the musicians won’t have played together before. As we’re sitting there, a guy arrives with a traditional drum.
    “What’s that?” yells Ridlee.
    “It’s a Bodhrán ,” I yell back.
    “A bow-wow? Is it made of dog hide?” she asks, earnestly.
    “Bow-Rawn. It’s an Irish word. You hold the drum upright on your lap and play it with a bone. It’s pretty sexy. Wait, you’ll see.” We watch the guy take out his bodhrán followed by the bone and position it on his lap while he waits for a break in the music.
    I am sitting behind him and can only see the muscles in his shoulders and back as he leans over the instrument. He’s brawny, with a strong back, but I can’t see his face. Dark brown hair curls at the top of his shirt. I glug down some more of my Guinness trying to cool the heat that’s building. Whoa there, Erin. Remember you’ve sworn off Irish guys… I remind myself.
    The next piece starts, and I can see that he has his ear cocked, waiting for the right time to begin. The fiddle, banjo, and guitar are in full swing when he begins to drum silently on the rim of the drum. The music gets faster and louder and in he comes with more volume. He uses his whole body, leaning in and out as he drums harder and then softer. At one point, I can almost see his face, but he has his eyes closed, lost in the music. His features are strong and angular, and I squirm a little in pleasure. He plays so well that the other musicians make room for a bodhrán solo. He is fantastic.  
    Mmm , maybe I need to rethink my rule about Irish guys . Maybe, just maybe, I could make an exception. Just this once. If things go the way I expect them to, Ridlee and I will be gone in a couple of days, anyway. What harm could there be in a little fun first?  
    Fuck it - it’s not like anybody here knows me…
    When the song ends, I get the lounge girl’s attention and order three more pints. Then, I clear my