Live, Laugh, and Drink. #1

...Oh how do you do, young Willie McBride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside,
And rest for a while in the warm summer sun?
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen,
When you joined the great fallen in 1916.
Well I hope you died quick, and I hope you died clean, oh Willie McBride,
Was it slow and obscene…?...

They always told me that I couldn’t do anything. That life would take me wherever the hell it wanted to and that I should accept it. Every time I heard “…just live with it.” I wanted to turn and claw those people’s eyes out. But, thanks to my great self control, I refrained. And therefore here I am.

The view out the window is terrifying to my gut-wrenching fear of heights. It’s a wonder I even stepped on the plane. My eyes were practically glued shut the entire first half- hour of the flight. Yet- the grey waters of the Atlantic sway and, although the sun is sinking, I’m not as afraid as I might have been under different circumstances.

I’m showing everyone who has ever said that hated phrase to me just what I can do. Rebecca Trinty is no little girl anymore; frankly I think that collage has toughened me up. And I am happily leaving the United States, Irish Visa and American passport are securely tucked into my purse.

A tap on my shoulder, and my head turns. A young man with bright green eyes, and a slightly too- big for good looks nose points to the looming stewardess. Untangling myself from the headphones which had been stuck in my ears, though dormant of any music, I raise an eyebrow.

”A drink, miss?”

I smile sheepishly and nod, “Coke thanks.”

Taking the frosted plastic cup from her, I smile as she moves down the aisle. Turning to the man, who in my state of rigid terror, I’d not noticed from before, I give a half smile. Oh, how I do hate to introduce myself, I must have seemed so rude- ignoring him.

”Hello!” I chirrup, wincing at the cheerfulness of my voice. I sound like a little girl, meeting a new playmate for the first time.

He nods, “’allo.” His accent is thick, his voice rich. I get lost for a moment- one of the reasons I decided to work in Ireland, as shallow as it seems, was the accent.

My grin widens, and I offer a hand, “I’m Rebecca. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you earlier- I really hate flying.”

The good-natured grin that had spread on his face, probably from my syrupy interlude, makes him seem quite handsome. He grasps my hand for a moment, warm and large. I think one of the most attractive traits in a male is his hands and well, this was a wonderful bonus for him.

“Rhys. Nice ‘ta meet you.”

His accent. Amazing. To keep myself from staring I take a gulp of my Coke. Bubbles rush down my throat. I almost choke, masking my gargle with a cough.

Looking him over I realize he must be a musician. His jeans are clean, and nicely loose- his shirt bearing the words, ‘Elvis is dead. The Beatles aren’t.’ in chalky gray letters. A brown leather jacket is thrown over this ensemble. His hair is deep brown, but somewhat spiked and bleached on the top.

I run a hand absentmindedly through my own chestnut curls. Presently, it’s in a loose ponytail. I have my comfy jeans on; they accent my long legs I’m told, and a baby doll top, the cobalt blue matching my eyes. A gray, fluffy sweater is around my shoulders. I suddenly feel quite self conscious.

“Where are ye’ headed?”

His question jolts me from my thoughts.

“Um…Belfast?” I hope I’m pronouncing it correctly…

“Ah, love tha’ town. I’m goin’ there meself! My mates an’ me ‘ave a lil’ gig.” He sounds happy. My guess was right, musician!

I give a little smile, “I’m going for work.” I state, feeling rather dowdy.

He smiles and nods, then pulls out an iPod. Settling back in his seat, I’m too timid to interrupt him. So I plug my headphones back in…Ireland was already interesting, and I wasn’t even on the ground.

By the time I wake up, the captains’ voice is crackling over the PA, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will begin our descent into Dublin momentarily.” I glance over at, what was his name? Rhys, I remember. He’s asleep. I muster my courage and poke him on the shoulder. He opens an eye, and says in a clearly half-conscious tone, “Wha-?” Then he promptly falls back asleep.

I clear my throat, “We’re going to be landing soon. Thought you should know…”

He keeps sleeping. Fine then! I settle back into my seat, and shoot him a sideways, grumpy look. Then I sigh, and fall back into darkness…

...Did they beat the drums slowly,
did they play the fife lowly,
did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play the last post and chorus;
did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?...