Mickey Kelly, Led Zeppelin, loose jean wearing, anti hero and unlikely love interest to Sophie…
He was smiling and I involuntarily smiled back. I wasn’t sure if this was part of some cheeky chap routine he put on for female customers, but he seemed genuine enough and clearly didn’t think too much of himself, given his unkempt hair and aged band t-shirt. I knew it was Led Zeppelin; I’d grown up on my mother’s record collection. He had good taste in music and an appealing face, in a non-conventional ‘Rory Gallagher meets Joaquin Phoenix’ sort of a way.
“What can I say? I was miserable, and then you came along,” I replied, trying to wear what I hoped was an easy-going smile. Was I flirting? Maybe I was, I wasn’t entirely sure, but whatever I was doing, I quite liked it, especially behind the safety of the bar counter and the knowledge that he was still on the clock. Nice, safe, flirting; just what you need on the rebound.
He wiped his hands on a towel and dropped it onto the counter at the rear of the bar. “Michael Kelly, County Derry,” he remarked cheerfully, his hand still outstretched. “My friends call me Mickey.”
“Hey, Mickey, what a pity you don’t understand!” I cringed at the cheesy eighties pop reference. Sure, like he’s never heard that before.
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