“What’s all that stuff?” Kayla asked, pointing at the pile of bags and boxes.“Basics. Some clothes and beds and blankets and stuff.”“Oh aw...some. We already started making a shopping list.” Kayla replied.“Yeah, I bet you did. Well, I bet that everyone wants a shower.”“Uh huh. Do you have any more luffas?” Kayla asked.“What the fuck is a luffa?” I asked.“Uhm, you know the big fluffy thing you use in the shower?” Kayla replied, giving me a look as if I was an alien.“No sorry. Add it to the list.”. 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. More

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