Early
twenties, long
fair hair, blue-jeaned, Dutch I'd guess. Camping
on the beach probably;
sitting
now
with her travelling companion at the next table.
I’m
in the only bar in the locality, Friday night, thronged with locals
enjoying the weekly music. The two girls have a different style, they’re
noticed, but that’s the height of it; you
get summer visitors in these parts.
At
the bar, shimmying, the local Ronaldo. Thirty-five-ish, pint in
one hand, massaging
roll of belly between tee-shirt and jeans with the other; he’s
outlining a
game-plan to
three acolytes:
‘gwan horse!’
But
the girl’s
spread-eagled on his
cross hairs and the
performance
is
for her. He’s
watching,
every
few minutes his eyes travelling over
to
her table.
And
suddenly he’s off to her table. He’s full-sail
on the open sea, and
that’s noticed too, but that’s the height of it.
He
asks her to dance.
On
the dance floor
he’s doing a jive-waltz-dribble sort of thing, interrupted occasionally
to lob the odd word down her ear-hole. There’s
twirl, lots of twirl, and
twinkling feet;
the
locals know the story,
little
smiles on their faces, the
pair
are the only ones dancing.
Back
at
the bar, anticipation-pricked, he’s warming the lads; shimmies
becoming daintier, more intricate like; he calls another
pint......and a glass.
The
glass crosses the floor, the pint with it.
Stool
patted, down goes the arse and it’s chat, chat, chittidy, chattedy,
chit-chat;
he
massages his belly
and then another pint.
“Glass
?”
“No
thanks.”
Back
at
the bar, horn-filled, brimmin; Rono, ya beauty!
But
they
bolt. The
two girls gone.
The discovery takes a moment or two.
He roars, runs after them, across the lounge, out the door, slams it shut; leaves the lads
scattered, astounded feathers behind him.
And the music, as they say, played on.
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