Ride On by Stephen J. Martin Page A

you. I know you’ve been bloody annoying me all day about it but, y’know, at the same time …’
    â€˜Shades Jimmy. Where’s the shades?’
    â€˜Oh for fuck sake … you’d have a saint wanting to kick the arse off you, you know that?’ said Jimmy, fishing them out of his pocket and putting them on. ‘Okay? Is that all right?’
    â€˜Lovely. You’re a ride.
    â€˜Did Sparky want to come? I mean, he’s kind of in the band at the moment.’
    â€˜Nah. Children give him heartburn in the arse he says. But he wants the limo on the way back from the gig. I think he’s bringing his old dear for a spin around Dublin on the way home. Is that all right? We’ll have to get taxis home like real people.’
    â€˜I am a real person, Aesop.’
    â€˜Are you?’ said Aesop, grinning. ‘Do real people wear shades indoors? Look at the state of you.’
    â€˜This was your fucking …’
    â€˜Lads?’ said Tommy, pulling the door open again.
    Aesop winked at Jimmy and strolled in first. Jimmy took a breath and followed.
    There was about one second of total, stunned silence in the Flanigan living room and then the eardrums in Jimmy’s head nearly exploded with the screams of two dozen teenage girls.
    *
    â€˜Okay Mam, I’m off now,’ said Norman.
    â€˜Have a good night love.’
    â€˜I’ll be late. Or I might even stay in Aesop’s in town if it’s very late.’
    â€˜Okay. Well, I’ll see you in the morning then.’
    â€˜Goodnight.’
    Norman got the bus into town and stood next to Molly on Grafton Street, pulling his collar tight around him and sticking his hands in his pockets. There was a guy in a tracksuit standing just next to him with a huge basket of individually-wrapped red roses. He was shifting from foot to foot in the cold and looking around hopefully. Norman was thinking about it. After all, himself and Trish had pretty much met because of roses. It’d be cool. Or would it be fucking corny and crap? Norman wasn’t brilliant at this type of thing. Still, he hadn’t fucked anything up yet. He turned around.
    â€˜Are you selling the roses?’
    The guy looked down at his basket and shook his head.
    â€˜Nah. I just thought I’d come out tonight and stand around in the cold like a cunt.’
    Norman blinked at him.
    â€˜Christ. I’d say you don’t sell many, do you, charming fucker that you are?’
    â€˜Not in this weather. Everyone’s meeting their women in pubs, the bastards.’
    â€˜I’ll have one. How much?’
    â€˜Fiver.’
    â€˜A fiver? Are you mad?’
    â€˜You’re going to start haggling, are ye? And the fingers fuckin’ frozen off me?’
    â€˜Jesus, okay. Well just give me one so, please.’
    â€˜Here you go.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜No problem.’
    Norman took the rose and looked at it. It was a bit shite-looking. Still, it wasn’t exactly the season. He wondered where they got them. He folded his arms against the cold, tucking the flower into the crook of his elbow, and waited. It was five past eight. No sign of her yet. Another two minutes. Then he turned around again, frowning. The roses guy looked up.
    â€˜What?’ he said.
    â€˜Are you going to just stand there?’ said Norman.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Are you going to just stand there? Right next to me with a big basket of roses? She’ll know where I got this one.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’
    â€˜She’ll be along in a minute. What kind of a prick will I look like? Can you not go and stand somewhere else?’
    â€˜Where would you like me to go for fuck sake?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Around the other side of the statue or something?’
    â€˜A fiver.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Gimme a fiver and I’ll go away.’
    â€˜You can fuck off with yourself!’
    â€˜Then