Page 8 of Last Call at the Local

I lean toward him. “You should keep me updated either way, so I don’t have to wonder. The uncertainty might kill me.”

“There’s nothing worse than uncertainty,” he says. “So I suppose I’ll have to update you regularly.”

“Very regularly.” The voice of reason tells me to take it down a notch, but I tell the voice of reason to suck it.

There’s a beat of silence, as if neither of us knows where to go from here. There are too many options. I could be direct, I suppose.Say, any interest in taking me back to your place tonight?Or I could dance around the topic.Do you have any plans for the rest of your evening? Because I don’t, but I wouldn’t mind finding some.I take a sip from my pint and decide on neither.

“Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me something about you.”

Jack laughs. “I’ll be boring to you.”

I have a hard time believing that. It can be a challenge for me to give anyone my full and undivided attention. It’s not personal. My brain is just a shitty computer. The browser is perpetually frozen on a tab for music. The error messageThis webpage is using significant memoryis ever present. No matter what I do, thoughts of music are as persistent as pop-up ads. It’s caused me real problems. It’s hard to force-quit my thoughts, and, unlike an actual computer, I can’t reboot my brain, or replace my faulty frontal lobe, or upgrade to a new one.

Most of the time, I feel as if I’m running a different operating system than everyone else. But sometimes, like right now, I meetsomeone who manages to minimize the music tab. Someone I can tune in to with such ease that I want to abandon the small talk and jump right into the good stuff. Hopes, fears, all the things that make someone who they really are. It can be too much. I know that.Ican be too much. But hopefully, when I click with someone like that, they feel it too. They might even be a little too much themselves.

“What makes you so boring?” I ask.

Jack sighs. “Oh, lots of things. I’ve never been outside of Ireland, for one.”

I’m about to ask him why he’s never left Ireland and where he would go if he did, but he changes the subject before I get the chance. “Speaking of traveling, with all the traveling you’ve done, I’m guessing you’ve seen a lot of pubs.”

“I’ve played in pubs, danced in pubs, had pints in pubs all the way from Boston to... well, here.”

“And you seem like a woman who says whatever she’s thinking.”

“Most of the time.”Whether I want to or not.

Jack eyes me thoughtfully. “So what do you think of this place, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“How does this pub compare to the other pubs you’ve been to?”

His voice is light, almost teasing, but there’s something else there too, an earnestness. “Are you really asking?”

“I’m really asking.”

I scan the pub. It isn’t huge, but there are plenty of seating options. A few wooden tables gleam in the light of bare bulbs strung overhead. I can’t see too far into the two smaller rooms that flank the main room, but one has a few secluded areas, while the other has at least one long table for larger gatherings. The liquor shelves behind the bar are organized and uncluttered. The music is good. But you don’t go to a pub to listen to the music unless it’s live. You go for conversation. And while I’m enjoying my conversation with Jack, Ican’t say it’s inspired by the atmosphere of this pub, which feels a bit sterile. If anything, our conversation is livelydespiteit.

“It’s... nice,” I say, glancing at Jack to gauge his reaction.

“Care to elaborate?”

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that when someone asks for your opinion, they usually want you to say whatever it is they want to hear.

I shrug. “You seem to be a regular. It must be good if you keep coming back, right?”

“Sure, but...” Jack sighs and leans closer. “If you’re worried about offending me, don’t. I’m not exactly a regular customer here.”

“Are you, like, the owner of a competing pub? Or a health inspector? You don’t look like a health inspector.” I pause, realizing he might think I’m suggesting he looks unclean. “That’s a good thing, by the way. You look much cooler than a health inspector.” But what if he reallyisa health inspector, and now I’ve insulted his profession? “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a health inspector.”

Jack’s eyes dart to a nearby menu. He grabs it and pushes it into my hands. “If you tell me what you really think, I’ll get you dinner. Whatever you want. You’ve got to have the truffle chips before you go. They’re really good.”

I look over the menu. “They do sound good. And I can’t really turn down free food in my circumstances...”

“So is that a yes?”

I figure there’s no harm in giving the man what he wants, especially if it results in free food. “Okay, fine.” I snap the menu shut, then look around the pub again. “The beer is good. The bartender seems... intense, but in a likable way. The cat is cute,” I say, catching sight of Sebastian crossing the room. “The place is beautiful...”

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