Roe's Bar, Half-Time

Roe's was running a one-in, one-out at half-time, and Eamon only got in because he'd been there since twelve and the bouncer recognised his dog.

"No one's riding the dog," said the bouncer, not unkindly, as Eamon squeezed past with a pint in one hand and Mossy's lead in the other. "That's the only rule."

"Fair."

Inside, the place was heaving. Red-and-white jerseys packed four deep at the bar and a slow sea of maroon-and-white along the lounge side. The telly over the bar was tuned to the delayed coverage; the actual match was being played two hundred metres up the road at the stadium, but the TV was showing a tactical graphic about short puckouts, which half the pub was shouting at.

Eamon found three square inches of space by the side door and tied Mossy's lead around the bar stool leg. Mossy sat. Mossy was a collie-sized combination of three breeds that included neither collie nor sheepdog, but Mossy believed she was a collie and she was rarely contradicted.

A man in a maroon-and-white beanie shuffled over. Thirty, maybe. Stubble. The beanie was wrong for the weather.

"Is she biteable?"

Eamon looked up. "By whom."

"By me. The dog."

"Oh. No. She'll lick you. She has no teeth of interest."

The man crouched. Mossy accepted the greeting with the indifference of a medieval queen. The man scratched behind her ear and said, "She's lovely."

"She knows," Eamon said.

The man stood back up. "Are you Red or White."

"White." Eamon lifted his pint towards the cluster of maroon-and-white at the other end of the bar. "You?"

"Red. From the city. Working up here, but. You know."

"Galway bred, Dublin fed."

"Something like that." A tiny smile. "I'm Dermot."

"Eamon."

"Eamon, is your dog the only dog in Tipperary with a county jersey."

Mossy was wearing a small, handmade maroon-and-white bandana. Eamon looked down.

"My sister made it."

"Is your sister on Etsy."

"She's a chartered accountant. It's a side thing."

"Put me down for a red-and-white one. Sight unseen."

Eamon laughed. Mossy, ignored for ten seconds, nudged Dermot's leg.

The second-half throw-in was twelve minutes away. The TV over the bar made a sharp, panicked noise — somebody in the studio had said the wrong name for a wing-back — and the entire bar jeered at once, and for a moment the place was a single, happy animal, and Eamon felt, briefly, as if he was part of something.

Dermot said, "Can I get you a pint."

"I've one in."

"A half. Top-up."

"Dermot."

"Yes."

"I can get my own drinks. I'm forty-three years old."

"Fair. I just — " Dermot paused. He had that look people got when they were in the middle of deciding whether to say the second half of a sentence. He committed. "I came over because your dog is gorgeous, and I stayed because you are, and I'm going back to my group in thirty seconds. I'd just like to leave with your number."

Eamon, who had been drinking, coughed a little.

Mossy, still unconcerned.

"Right," Eamon said. "Okay."

"You can say no. You can also tell me to fuck off. We're in public and there are fifty people here who'd back you up, probably."

"I'm not going to tell you to fuck off."

"Okay."

"Are you — " Eamon set his pint down carefully on the high table beside him. "You're being very direct for a pub in Thurles on an All-Ireland day."

"I know. Believe me. I've spent twenty minutes deciding whether to come over at all." Dermot tilted his head. "I'm Galway. You're Tipperary. The match is going to end in forty minutes and I'm never going to be back in this pub. I'd rather regret the ask than regret the silence."

"Jesus Christ."

"I know."

Eamon looked at him for a long five seconds. Dermot looked back, steadily. Around them, the noise of the bar continued; somebody was shouting at somebody else about a disallowed point and Mossy, bored, was sitting on Eamon's foot.

"Where in the city," Eamon said.

"Drumcondra."

"And your work."

"Architect. Small practice. We mostly do retrofits."

"Any children."

"No."

"Allergic to dogs."

"No. Obviously."

"Why the beanie in June."

"Bad haircut."

"Grand."

"Grand?"

Eamon pulled his phone out of his back pocket. "Give me yours."

"Oh. Yeah." Dermot produced a phone with a maroon case and a significant crack across the screen. "Here."

Eamon typed in his number. He hesitated at the name. He put "Eamon (Roe's)". Dermot looked over his shoulder and laughed softly.

"Good contact-hygiene, Eamon."

"I'm a Tipp man. We're careful."

"Clearly."

Dermot put the phone away. "I'll text you after. So you've mine too."

"Alright."

"Enjoy the second half."

"Enjoy losing."

"Cocky."

"I don't normally do this," Eamon said, and then felt embarrassed, because that was a line from a film and not anything a person actually said. "I mean — I don't. Meet people in pubs."

"I gathered. Most people take their dog out first."

"Dermot."

"I'm going, I'm going."

He bent to rub Mossy's head again. Mossy accepted, graciously. Then he stood and walked back into the crowd of maroon-and-white, and the bar reabsorbed him.

Eamon stared at his pint for a moment.

His phone buzzed.

Dermot (Galway). Thank you for not telling me to fuck off. If Galway win I'm buying you dinner. If Tipp wins — same. In Dublin, at a place I know that's good with dogs.

Eamon read it twice. Then he looked up at the television, and at the people around the TV, and at the maroon beanie just visible at the far end of the bar, and at Mossy, who was industriously licking a chip someone had dropped on the floor.

He wrote back:

Mossy will have the chicken. Plain. No sauce.

Dermot replied in four seconds.

Noted.

Eamon put the phone away. The bar roared as the second-half throw-in came on screen. Mossy, still convinced she was a collie, settled down to wait it out.

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