He’s late. A half hour late, and I don’t have the option of calling. I check my watch and take a sip of my sparkling water. A small sip, after thirty minutes open I find it flat. I should’ve put the top back on. Stupid. Friday night and I’m paying for my own drinks, bad enough without wasting all my money on Ballygowan.
Can’t get drunk yet. Who knows how much longer he’ll be? I need to look good, and drinking on an empty stomach won’t help me. I look at the cocktail menu anyway. Ten Euro for a Cosmopolitan. Celtic Tiger prices. They obviously didn’t get the memo. It’d take fifty of them to pay for this suit. My shoes, newer, cost half a Cosmopolitan. The bartender spots me looking and asks if I want anything. I tell him I’m driving even though I took the bus. Shit. He’ll buy me a drink when he gets here, that’ll be awkward. He’ll probably buy me a few. I order another sparkling water, Ballygowan, glass, not plastic, even though the first bottle’s not empty. It’s warm as well as flat but I finish it anyway, the bartender takes the empty as he places the fresh bottle on the table. I check the mirror behind the bar - the suit looks good, dark navy slim fitted jacket, skirt just long enough for office wear and a crisp white blouse with enough buttons open to show my necklace. The suit’s touching two years old, older than I’d like, but looks professional. Just like him.