The Guinness beers we ordered weren’t going down as quickly as usual.
Our conversation was hardly engrossing either, with both of us looking around at the seemingly lifeless pub while our beers stared at us as if they knew something. As if they were waiting for my phone to ring.
Richard and I had pounded beers at The Flying Shamrock dozens of Friday nights before, but the atmosphere was sterile that night, even though there was a live band and a crowd of people around us.
It was only about 10:30 p.m. when my phone rang and before I even checked, I knew who it was and why she was calling.
It was my mother.