By Susan Condon
Average, he thought smiling, that’s just how I look.
He took a sip from his pint, putting it back down with an audible sigh.
“Told you we serve the best pint of Guinness in the land,” said the old, weathered barman.
“Well, you sure weren’t wrong there!” replied the man, lifting his pint, in mock salute, while flashing a killer smile.
“Sean’s the name,” said the barman, wiping his hand on the front of his Aran jumper before extending it.
“Pleasure to meet you, I’m Jack,” said the dark-haired visitor with the warm brown eyes. Pulling his right hand from his pocket he made sure his handshake was perfect; not soft; but not a tight, finger-crunching grip either. For once, father would have been proud.
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