OOOOOOOOF. I forgot I had written the previous post, which was sponsored by a brace of gin and sodas last night, sipped below the edict painted above the bar: Nunc est bibendum!

The pub was busy—the bank holiday weekend, which coincides with Lughnasadh, the festival marking the beginning of harvest season, which calls for the offering of first fruits, feasting, handfasting, fairs, and athletic contests. For example, on this day, the village of Killorgan, Co. Kerry will host the Puck Fair, during which a wild goat is crowned king and a young girl his queen. Anyways, no one really checked our covid vaccine passes, and a lot of people forgot to wear their masks while moving from room to room. The owner stopped to chat with the husband about the father-in-law, whom he had known through the vintners' association.

As our cash dwindled and the empty glasses proliferated, we chatted, really chatted. We even discussed our dismay over our childlessness, and how we had reacted, withdrawing from each other in frustration and sadness, until I could nearly scream at the loneliness. We made up, and I took a photo of him, looking at me with such tenderness, I forgave him, I forgave us.

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