“Careful there, man,” she said.  Yes, the voice had that previously mentioned lilt.  I’d have been enchanted if I weren’t gasping for breath and wiping my face with the apron.

I’m not sure if she translated the grimace I made into the smile I intended or not.  Nevertheless, she was friendly enough.

“You washin’ dishes, then?”

I nodded and responded hoarsely, “Yes…”

“Worst summer I ever spent was doin’ the dishes in a Belfast tea room.”

She closed her big green eyes and frowned exaggeratedly.

“You from Ireland?”  I could almost breathe by that point.

She shook her head. 

“Nah.  Peoria.  Spent a long time learnin’ to fake the accent.  Fills the tip jar.”

Pause. 

We looked at one another.  Her pretty face with freckles dusted across its cheeks and long, straight nose was dead serious.  Then she smiled broadly, warmly.  Hesitantly, I smiled, too.

“Joke,” she said.  “Get asked that a lot – I like to have a good answer.  It’s dull to just say, ‘Sure, I’m fresh off the boat from Belfast.’”

I liked her.  Not only was she pretty, but quick and funny.  Now, if she only had a million bucks and picked up stray freelance writers, I’d be in business.  As it was, I was soaked in sweat, beer, reeked of cigarettes… nothing to write home about, whether home be Belfast or Peoria.

“What’s your name?” I blurted out.  It was all I could think of.

“Eileen,” she said.  “Yours?”

“Ben.”

She reached out to shake my hand, so I wiped mine off on the apron and took hers.  Damn strong grip, and her fingers were heavily calloused.  What the devil did this woman do for a living?  Plow fields with a mule rig?

Sam stuck her head out of the back door.

“There you are, you slack-assed bastard.  You’re three minutes late gettin’ back to the sink.”

Damn!

“How ‘bout you, Eileen?  You ready to go on?”

“Yeah, sure.  Give me a minute.”