Gin Tonic Please, Double, With Ice: A Short Story

Gin Tonic Please, Double, with Ice
Jason McFarlane was galloping in the deserted, pebbled street, with his attaché case, his knees still shivering, trying to catch his breath. His heart pulsed and pumped in such a pace that he felt it was going to jolt out of his chest. His squeezed palms, as all his muscles, soured by anxiety. Cold sweat trickled down his neck. He could not bring himself to calm down, although he was paining to. Inhaling the frosty air, he raised his duffle coat collar up to his ears. The night was cold, crisp and clear. He could not believe that only a few hours ago he landed in Dublin airport. He flew from Washington, planning to meet for the first time his Irish kinfolks were cattle growers. Hoping to loosen up his tension, he decided to stop by at a near bar whose lights were still on in that late hour. The sign on its door read, ‘The Holy Cow Bar’, ‘At least’ he told himself ‘I will try to’. Before entering, he halted, took a deep breath and looked up at the stars’ studded sky. Their twinkling glow shimmered above the somber street like a sparkling canopy. He identified with ease the Big and the Small Bears with their kids’ toys - carts formations, and the North star. For a few split seconds the sight brought back childhood memories, when, sitting by his father at their
Catching the bartender’s eye contact, he ordered a Gin Tonic. ‘Double please, with ice’ he added, signalling with two fingers up. The tall, tweedy, chiseled cheeks' bartender handed it to him in a tall glass, brows frowned, with a slight exasperated look on his face, reserved for those Americans who slay any decent Irish drink with ice. Reckoning the challenging look, Jason smiled, waving his hand as if he was raising a white surrendering flag. He lacked the energy to respond this old age bistros’ duel that he would otherwise enjoy. He raised his glass, intending to grant himself at last a well merited toast and