Irena - Brochan's

Brochan's was the local version of what everyone thought an Irish pub would look like. Before Irena had left for the city it had seemed exotic, now it felt ordinary and rather fake. Every table was filled when they walked in. Fortunately, Amy and Tricia had already arrived and grabbed one. Seeing her friends in the same styles they had worn in high school, going to clubs with the same kinds of music, forcefully reminded her how much she had drifted out of their circle.

As soon as they were seated a waiter came over for their orders. "Slivovitz, please," Irena added to Stacy's order of Irish Cream. She tried again when the waiter shook his head, "Jameson Limited Reserve?" He shook his head again. "Jameson Gold?" He nodded at that one.

"Still drinking weird stuff?" Amy asked.

"There's nothing odd about slivovitz," Irena replied.

"Ok, big city girl," Tricia added.

The first drink relaxed her enough that the thoughts she had pushed away while driving returned. Stacy and the others started comparing the guys in the pub while Irena's mind wandered, painting a picture of a very different place. Dark stone walls arched over a rough hewn floor. Smoke hung heavy in the air, thick with the scents of grilled meats, tobacco and other smokes, sweat from many different races of creature clogged the air. Booming echoes of conversations, shouts of greeting, food and drink orders, and music from a stage in a small pocket cave partway up the far wall crashed around her in a deafening tide. Shadows flickered from lamps and torches hanging from the ceiling, placed on tables, or jutting out from the walls. She was seated at a small table, tucked into a little alcove against one wall. A single candle guttered in the air currents, flickering light and shadow across the top of the dark black liquid she was drinking. Across from her a small urchin girl sat, sipping a bile green colored sludge and smiling with genuine delight.

"Earth to Irena. Hello, where were you? I've pointed out the same guy four times now and you haven't even twitched your eyes," Stacy hissed.

"Oh, um, nothing, just more tired than I thought from the drive," Irena responded slowly. She forced her eyes to focus where Stacy was pointing. None of the guys in that general direction caught her eye.

"That one. The one in the denim jacket," Stacy almost huffed. Irena looked at the man in question. He was the blandest looking one of the bunch, although he was handsome enough. He could have been a final year student, a law clerk, or an insurance man. "Maybe you are becoming a lesbian," Stacy said with an edge when Irena just looked away.

"Sorry Stace, he just looks boring. I don't see anything edgy about him at all."

"Damn it, what's wrong with you? That ass hole you dumped sure was edgy enough. Abusive, drunk, and rude. Is that what you want again?"

"No, but I want someone with some fire, some passion, and who isn't afraid to be different."

"Is that some type of comment on me?" Stacy asked.

"No. No, of course not," Irena responded, almost too quickly. That actually was what she was thinking. When she had planned the trip home, she'd thought it would help to see her old friends, go to the old haunts, and drool over the boys again. But it all felt empty and hollow. She began to regret having taken an entire week, then told herself if she still felt the same way tomorrow, she'd head back early.

"At least get out there and dance," Stacy pressed. Reluctantly Irena hauled herself up and edged through the crowd to the dance floor. Not very many people were dancing, so she stood out both in her darker attire and because she was dancing alone. Several guys tried to join her, but moved away when she ignored them.

"You didn't even try to dance with any of those guys," Stacy accused when Irena returned to the table.

"Not interested," Irena replied. Stacy pointedly turned away from Irena and only talked to Amy and Tricia for the rest of the evening. After five or ten minutes of the silent treatment, Irena rose and spent the rest of the night alternating between the bar and the dance floor. It wasn't the music she particularly liked to dance to, but it was easier than being near Stacy while she pouted.

The ride home was spent in strained silence. "We have to share my bed, but don't talk to me until morning," Stacy said when they entered her room.

Cloying perfume, scented powder, and overpowering lavender scents clashed in Irena's throat and lungs, forcing a short bout of violent coughing. Stacy just glowered until she was finished, silently handed her a box of tissue, and stomped off to the bathroom. She returned a few minutes later in her perfect pink nighty, flopped down on the bed, rolled to the far side, and stretched out facing away from Irena and the room. Irena stared at Stacy for a long time before pulling a pair of sweats out of her bag, changing into them, and slipping into bed. She stared up at the ceiling for a very long time until sleep finally pulled her down into more strange dreams.