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She shocked themother into silence for a moment by shoving her hand into her face,middle-digit firmly outstretched, but still grinning at the children.She managed to make the shocked silence last rather longer when, just asecond later, she moved her hand and shoved her firmly outstretchedfinger somewhere else.The woman just gaped, open-mouthed and stupid, as she watched the hussyin front of her grinding and thrusting her hips hard, grunting andmoaning and licking lasciviously at her over-plump lips.When that deep, strangled cry of ecstasy finally went up, thick globssplattering on the pavement and gushing down long, tanned legs, thefinger was finally yanked loose with a loud squelch, and the girlsmirked again as she wiped it across the dumb-faced woman's tits.She sauntered off then, hungrily licking the remnants off of her finger,winking at the silent, staring kids...I looked a few days forward.She was vaguely dressed now, albeit in the scantiest slutwear everdevised. She loved. He was singing the cheesier of the Irish ballads, Americans would rather hear of Molly Malone and her cockles and mussels than Pádraic Pearse and his butchered schoolboys. They would rather think of Ireland as a place of happy leprechauns, drunken and merry, rather than the true tragedy of Bridget’s homeland. Bridget sighed, despairing for her adopted countrymen. Before her was a half-full bottle of Jameson, a chipped ashtray brimming with butts and ash, and a damply empty glass. The red-haired lass fixed the glass’s fault, and stared down balefully with her green eyes at the letter set down before her on the warped wood of the wobbly table. It was then that a cantankerous old fool with a tobacco-stained beard slurred a come-on at her. Bridget flashed a sharp-toothed grimace at the man, who blinked and flubbed before walking away. Let him wonder what kind of demon she may be, Bridget thought. She had no patience for lecherous old fools this evening. She had a letter to read. A.
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