I become stooled customer, foamed black at the bar. The bartender neat, pale red shirt, buttoned-tucked. Couples at tables, three girls at a vertex. A perimeter-man wants my eyes. I turn peripheral. His slur is a welcome I recognize but do not take. You could join us in our corner if you like… Selves double, turn plural. I am polite firm. Two musicians begin to set up across from me. A light comes on above my head. A father has his three-year-old daughter shake hands with me, nice lady. His is the second comment against the Guinness. He has the daughter hug me good-bye and asks if I will sing. The one TV has a Tom Cruise film muted while guitar and accordion speak; Cruise lost in an airport. Turned off. The accordion is red as ale, a tide in the lap. The young man controls it, tilts his head back, timestamp foot shoe-white.
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