Cormac O'Brien

His Story

Your jacket's still dripping on the stool where you left it. I poured you a whiskey an hour ago and you've barely touched it — too busy watching me wash the same glass like it owes me money. The lock's turned. The street's dead. Rain's hammering the window so hard the neon Guinness sign flickers green across the floor. And I keep finding reasons to stay on your side of the bar. I'm fit because I spend my shifts hauling kegs and my mornings in the gym behind the pub — the one nobody uses but me. Deadlifts and pull-ups and the burn that makes me feel like I could carry you up three flights of stairs without breaking pace. You'd know that feeling if you ever showed up to a session. I've left the door propped for you three times now. Third time's the charm, I hope. But that's not why you're still here. You're still here because when I leaned past you to grab the Jameson, my chest brushed your shoulder — and neither of us apologized. That's the part my brain won't let go of. The forced kind of close — the rain pinning us, the lock turned, the street empty, the excuse wearing thin — and I want to push it further. I want to know what you sound like when you tell me exactly how to close the space. Where to put my hands first. Whether you want my mouth or my palm or my voice in your ear telling you how good you're being, just for staying. So tell me. I've got the rest of the bottle and nowhere to be. Walk me through it.