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THE BIG ROMANCE

Sharon is a lovely girl. If she has one flaw though, it’s her woeful taste in men. Her last boyfriend, first time we met, segued directly from ‘How’s it goin’?’ into an anecdote about someone’s house he’d broken into the other night.

Now I’m not knocking the man’s profession, you understand. Everyone’s entitled to make a living. He just didn’t strike me as having an aptitude for that particular line of work. I mean, we hadn’t even been introduced yet. I could have been anyone. Last weekend at the Electric Picnic, however, Sharon found true love. The guy was called Derek and she reckoned Derek was the business.

“Whatcha think of this guy Derek?” Aidan asked me at the bar.

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “He tried to sell me pills when Sharon was at the jacks.”

“Cheeky bastard!” Aidan shakes his head in disgust. “D’you take any off him?”

“Fucker was looking for a tenner a go.”

“Cheeky bastard,” repeats Aidan. “Still, nice fella, I suppose?”

“Ah, yeah. Nice guy.”

A week later the big romance has bitten the dust. Derek hasn’t answered any of Sharon’s calls. In fact, the number he gave her is out of service.

Needless to say, her friends are rallying around.

“Maybe he’s a secret agent,” suggests Brendan, “called away on a case?”

“Maybe a rival hash dealer has a beef with him, maybe they’ve gone to the mattresses.”

“Fuck off lads, it’s not funny.”

“Do you know where he works?” asks Sean.

“Well,” Sharon snorts bitterly. “He said he works for the E.S.B. But for all I know, that could have been a lie too.”

“True, true,” I concede. “I mean, who among us hasn’t at one time or another pretended to work for the E.S.B. in order to impress a member of the opposite sex?”

“Send one of his mates a text,” suggests Paula. “Tell them you’re pregnant. That oughta flush the fucker out.”

Sharon shakes her head.

“Wouldn’t work…”

“Why not?”

“Ah, you know, it was a very small tent.”

Aidan and I exchange glances. Derek’s borderline folk hero status has instantly evaporated.

“Derek didn’t seal the deal? I don’t believe it!”

“I’m so disillusioned…”

“Just tell us one thing,” says Brendan. “Would it have made any difference if he’d said he worked for An Post, Bus Eireann?”

She shirks him off.

“I should have known not to come looking for sympathy from any of ye bollockses…”

“Irish Rail… Would you have slept with him if he was a train driver? Ah come on, I bet you would have…?”

A version of this article appeared in the Evening Herald, September 6 2008