December 24 & 25, 2019

"They said it was going to rain," he commented, dusting snowflakes from his overcoat before hanging it on the guest hooks near the door.

In a daze, I turned my attention from the television over the bar to the man now climbing onto the stool beside me. "What?"

"The news," he replied quietly, pointing up to the screen above. He adjusted his pants and propped his leather-clad shoes on the footrest as he sat. Then the man lifted an arm to call over the bartender. He glanced back at me and winked. "What'll it be? Next one's on me."

"Oh, I-" I started to say. "No, that's ok. I'm not sure why I came in here. Just wanted to get out of the cold, I guess. But I already had a drink so I'm good."

Leaning into my hands, I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. It had been a trying day. I had completed my Master's degree earlier in the year but as of yet had not secured myself a serious position. Unemployment was wearing on me. Feeling sorry for myself, and having no one to share Christmas Eve with, I left my apartment to go for a late night walk.

When I came across the little Irish pub on the corner of a cobblestone street, it's doorway welcoming patrons in with its quaint stain-glass "Slainte" windowpane, I pulled on the brass handle and entered.

The musky smell of aged whiskey and fermented malt wrapped me in a blanket of comfort. The place was mostly empty. I plopped down on a green pleather stool and ordered myself a vodka and cranberry with a splash of pineapple. The bartender, a gentle-looking man with a tattered, cream-colored sweater, poured me my drink with a soft, sociable smile. The weathered lines on his face put me at ease and I settled in for a sip of relaxation in a glass.

A swatch of green velvet hung above the bar, its corners hung in place with Christmas ornaments dangling on dollar store threads, and I smiled. Mother would never condone this décor, to say nothing of the bar itself. Oh, no. Nothing less than the best; she had interior decorators on staff to spew holiday cheer on every mantle, doorway, couch and light post. Rolling my eyes, I mentally chastised myself. "Now you're just being pissy, Aoibheann."

(Pronounced: "Ay-Veen")

Mother was a good person. We were total opposites, though. She was a born debutante while I found pleasure in everything dark and mysterious. Other girls attended cotillions and homecoming dances while I registered for Eastern language courses and cryptology seminars. I was an enigma to Mother. Ironically, the only one who got me was our butler, Niall. He was a dear friend of my father and when his health began to deteriorate dad offered him a job in an instant. Niall refused the position at first. But, realizing how much he was needed, especially when it came to keeping me in-line, Niall signed on.

I don't know what Niall did before he came to our employ; dad never told me and Niall changed the subject anytime I asked. It didn't matter, though. I loved him like a second father and my fascination with the dark arts, as my Mother liked to call them, was a passion we both shared.

Tonight my drive towards what seemed to be impossible was getting to me. While most of my classmates graduated with ready-made connections to launch themselves into the offices of the right people at the right time, I was floundering. I had my sights set on the CIA but it wasn't the type of organization who frequented college job fairs.

Which is why, on this dark, snowy night (so much for the rain!), I found myself sitting next to a tall man, wearing expensive shoes, wanting to buy me a drink.

"I'm not asking you out," he continued, as if I hadn't just wandered into the recesses of my mind leaving him outside at the bar in the mental cold, "it's just a drink. No worries, though. I understand if you don't want to accept. You don't know me."

I gave him a small smile, feeling rude. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

Turning more towards the man, I noticed for the first time his black hair and green eyes. I couldn't help remember an old song about Irish eyes.

Hmmm. Indeed. His were gorgeous.

And penetrating...like he could see right through me. He wore a tentative smile on his face but there was a level of scrutiny in his expression that belayed an unspoken level of serious intensity.

"Dillon," he softened, as if he could sense my sudden apprehension, before extending his right hand in the universal sign of open friendliness. "Nice to meet you."

My smile widened as I relaxed and offered my own back. "I'm Aoibheann."

"Aoibheann, huh?" He asked, swallowing his shot with a sigh of satisfaction. "Irish?"

"It is, yes. How did you know?"

"Well, one, we're in an Irish pub," he began.

"Pretty sure they're a dime a dozen around here," I replied unfazed with his generic rationale.

"Two, you have the look about you," he continued undaunted.

"Who me? Look Irish?" I asked, surprised. "Oh, Aunt Ethel would roll over in her grave. She was always one for denying that side of my family heritage."

"And, finally," he finished with the clunk of his glass against the splintered wood of the bar. "My grandmother's name was Aileen. The two names sound similar, so I just assume they're along the same lines."

"Well," I laughed. "You're right, Aoibheann is Irish. Good guess."

"So what brings you out tonight? No one at home waiting for you?" I asked, digging for information. This man was beyond handsome. He had the kind of looks that spelled both trouble and delectable temptation. If he wasn't married with kids, someone out there was a fool.

Chuckling with the shake of his head, Dillon ordered himself another drink; a double-shot this time. "You still good? Sure I can't get you anything?" He asked before paying the bartender for both our drinks when I finally conceded and agreed to just one more.

Minutes turned into hours and I found myself smiling for the first time in a while.

When at last we decided to leave, Dillon put down some bills on the bar for the tab and said, "Keep the change."

As we left, Dillon smiled quietly. I tried to think of something to talk about and found myself asking him, "What's your favorite Christmas movie?"

He looked at me sideways with a wry grim. I guess the randomness of my question surprised him.

He was quiet at first, and then laughed before saying, "Home Alone. I must have watched it a dozen times when I was a kid. The memories; mom used to bake us chocolate chip cookies whenever it came on television. Kevin, Harry and his sidekick-"

"Marv!" I jumped in.

"Yeah, Marv."

Grinning, I touched his arm without thinking.

Crap!

When I realized what I'd done, my cheeks flamed with heat.

Maybe Dillon wouldn't notice.

He kept talking, not missing a beat, as if my little snafu never happened (though I saw the reflexive smile he quickly hid before I turned any redder).

"Are you a Home Alone fan??" he asked me. "Because anyone who doesn't love Kevin and his antics is a deal breaker for me."

"I don't know," I replied hesitating and  squinting at first but then I smiled. "Of course I love that movie. Who wouldn't?"

I brought my hand to my mouth to put a stop to my sudden need to giggle. I felt like a child, my voice higher than normal, and eyes full of mirth. Dillon was busy laughing as I pondered our conversation's light-heartedness.

We began to walk down the street and away from the bar when Dillon turned to me. "Hey, you wanna get a cup of coffee? Maybe a slice of Christmas pie?"

"Christmas pie?" I asked. I'd never heard of it.

Dillon grinned. "Well, it's not really Christmas pie. That's just what I used to call it when my mom took me to this little diner down the street. Every Christmas we'd sit in their corner booth and order a slice to share. We usually got cherry; I thought the berries looked like Christmas, them being red and all. When my mom passed last year, I couldn't bring myself to go. This year...well, maybe I could try again, if you'll be my date."

Flash-forward 12 months, and a confused butler was staring my way, waiting as I tried to compose myself. Mother was about to explode, and our intercom radio played cheerful Christmas carols in the background.

I didn't know how to get myself out of this mess.

I was a nervous wreck, holding a decked-out avocado plant in my foyer. I stared down at it for a long time, and then reached out to turn off the radio.
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*Hughes, John. (1990). Home Alone.

Hughes Entertainment. 20th Century Fox. United States.