Hey, what's that bag?
The girl in the coffee shop, Rum-Dumplings pointed accusingly at the plastic bag I was carrying.
Oh bollocks, I thought. Not another plastic bag Nazi. No doubt wanting to give me a lecture about using Hessian cloth bags or some such shit.
I got enough of that in the house.
I raised the bag up and looked at it in some surprise as if someone had sneaked it into my hand.
Huh?
I said disarmingly, trying not to stare at the Rum-Dumplings that she was fairly named for.
It was hard though. They were like two sheep fighting in a pillowcase.
Have you been to that cool Beer shop round the corner?
She asked.
She was smiling as if a small dog were worming it's way up her trouser leg.
I smiled back.
Yeah, you know it? It's really cool.
Rum-Dumplings slipped out from behind the counter toward me.
Do I know it!? I spend all my wages there. It's amazing. Can I have a look at what you've got?
She reached a hand toward my bag as if hoping to casually brush against my slumbering penis and rouse it from its torpor.
Eh, yeah. Fire away.
I held the bag out and she opened it.
I judge all my men by the beer they drink.
She laughed as if she was joking and didn't really want to tear my skin off to ravage my shuddering bloodied under-flesh with her vagina.
I hope it measures up then.
Said I, with a flirty jape to my tone as if I were a butterfly playing with a stick.
Her face changed as she flipped through the beers that I had bought. There were about six of them.
Oh. My. God. These look awesome!
She gazed up at me with longing as if I were something kebab'y.
I shrugged my shoulders in that universally proud way that handsome men have when their penis utters it's first words.
I like good beer.
I gave Rum-Dumplings a crooked smile that promised all sorts of things. Running with the Pandas on the slopes of China's famous Jachmioff mountain, canoe-ing down the bache tombor and of course sweaty, bumpy Night-Badgers.
Rum-Dumplings started at me intently, her breathing becoming laboured as if she was already phantomly pregnant. In my head I started filling out the paternity leave application for my work and wondered how I would tell the Good Lady that I was a hoor and a crook.
The door dinged softly as a customer entered. The moment broke like an Irishman's arse after a Colcannon stew.
Rum-Dumplings stepped back, blinking in surprise as if she had just woken up.
What was it you wanted, a skinny latte?
She said, smoothing her hair back in a slightly flustered way.
Aye.
I nodded.
Somewhere a dog howled.
