Galway Girl

Outside, on the small wall, sat,

Jericho,

Who sneered,

“Fucking a nun.”

I said,

“The bloody wall of Jericho.”

We stared at each other for a long Galway minute, hostility dancing on the very air.

She asked,

“How much do I remind you of Emerald?”

I told the whole truth.

“You’re a piss-poor copycat, you have no style, no wit, and you’re almost English, killing a defenseless old woman. That’s who you are.”

And for the very first and only time in my life I spat. Literally.

Continued,

“That’s what I think of you.”

It landed on her much-scuffed Doc Martens boot. She was dressed in faux combat gear, all too big for her, and she resembled a petulant child in her dad’s clothes.

Her face went through a range of emotions.

Part shock Rage

A hint of fear

And then the defiance.

She snarled,

“Surely you admired the street theater of the old bitch’s death. Come on, Jack, it was impressive.”

I asked,

“Who was the other scum helping you?”

A smile of malevolence. She said,

“An apprentice, an intern, if you will.”

I felt tired and said,

“Tell her she’s facing early retirement.”

She clapped her hands, said,

“Oh, goody gumdrops. You’re coming after us.”

I began to walk away, she yelled,

“The jacket makes you look like a ponce.”

I gave her the finger without breaking stride and she hollered,

“I thought you loved Galway girls.”

I snapped back,

“Only the Steve Earle version, and maybe Mundy’s.”