Chili Fries

I have no idea where this one came from, other than the fact that I was sitting in the Smokehouse (which is the restaurant) and actually had just about this entire experience. Having just flipped through some of The Sound and the Fury in a vain attempt to study for my midterm, it inspired this little foray into things.

For the most part, this story is as true as anything else I write.

Chili Fries

It occurs to him that he is hungry, so he turns around and heads for a crosswalk. He could jaywalk but it doesn’t occur to him to go back for food until he’s already passed the restaurant so he walks in a circle. Maybe someone saw him and thought it was a silly thing to do but he’d just tell them that he was being a law-abiding citizen.

The restaurant’s empty except for the cook in the kitchen so he puts his bag down in a seat and waits until the owner gets back, then orders his food and a drink and sits down. Some song that he’s never heard of but sounds like a remix of Stayin’ Alive comes through the speakers and he frowns in annoyance because really did someone need to make a bad song worse by rapping over it?

Oxford intrudes upon his thoughts (not for the first time) and he remembers going to the little diner for breakfast all by himself in the mornings when he woke up feeling like death because of the night before and the Greek behind the counter would yell at his wife and she’d yell back and the food was greasy and life-giving. Then he thinks about the woman in the café that sat across from him and he thought he knew her, he did, so he’d asked “Do I know you?”

She seemed surprised to be spoken to beyond a request for the salt but she gave the question some thought and replied. “I don’t think so.”

“You look dreadfully familiar.” He says by way of apology and wonders if maybe it’s the glasses or the hair that did it but she looks like someone he’s written before and that confuses him terribly.

A group of high schoolers spills into the restaurant and one of them asks if they can sit in the seat where he put his bag. He shrugs and starts to move the bag but the girl suddenly seems shocked at her own boldness and withdraws. “In a New York Mood” drifts over through the speakers and he wonders if he’s ever been in a New York mood beyond his sister’s wedding before he went to college and they played “New York, New York” and he was drunk and the family formed a kickline and danced around.

“Where are you from?” he asks and wonders whether or not it’s just the hangover that’s making him this outgoing.

He doesn’t remember what she said but he remembers that it was a region to the north of them. “I’ve been here for the last five years.” She says with a grin. “Found a job out of school.”

He’s surprised because she doesn’t look that old to him but he nods sagely. “Well then we couldn’t have met before, because I only just got here a few months ago. I’m from the States.” He’s always liked the phrase “the States” because it’s so short and easy to say plus it doesn’t imply that they all agree (and he knows they don’t).

His gaze flicks up to the television and there’s a man setting himself on fire, but he’s wearing a fireproof suit so it’s okay. Jeff Gordon advertises Jeff Gordon’s racing career and he catches a comment from one of the highschoolers about needing a dollar in quarters and for a second his hand goes to his pocket but he has no change so he goes back to eating and watching the man set himself on fire.

A boy comes in and all the girls raise a ruckus over him because somebody said he liked somebody else and he denies it. In that moment it’s obvious that he likes the girl who’s teasing him the most but she’s completely oblivious to the boy’s awkward advances and he wants to give the boy a reassuring pat and tell him that it’s okay, she’s probably a bitch anyway but he doesn’t because that would be rude.

“Perhaps time travel’s involved.” She says, winking at him. He blinks, confused (that was supposed to be his line, wasn’t it?) for a moment but then he smiles a broad grin and admits that it’s a possibility.

“You haven’t time traveled, have you?” He asks idly, secretly hoping that she’ll nod and they’ll have an adventure.

“I’m afraid not,” she admits, and then he realizes that he finished his bacon and eggs and tea and really he should stop wasting her time but then she says “have you?” and he’s got to stick around just for a little while longer, just to answer her.

His fries are gone, and the highschoolers are all trying to pay for their food, rooting around in purses and pockets for spare change while a nondescript pop-rock song plays and he grabs another drink and waits and waits and waits. There’s another man in there with him and he can almost feel the man’s hatred of these children in his way, in his restaurant and the urge to tell the man that he really needs to relax and take life as it comes seizes him but what does he know anyway? It’s not worth offending anyone over.

The girl who asked if she could sit at his seat shies away from him as he approaches the counter to pay and he’s confused, because he’s never thought himself to be particularly menacing but he seems to come off that way despite his best efforts. He wonders if everyone’s always going to shy away from him but he knows that’s not true because the girl in the café hadn’t.

He’s not sure how long it’s been since he came in but his watch is back in the States to be repaired and he’s forgotten to wear the replacement he bought—but the wall clock tells him he’s got to get moving only he doesn’t want to, because he’s got something here and the worst thing that could happen would be for it to stop too soon.

But of course he gets up and makes a bow to her, saying that it was nice meeting her. “We should do this again sometime,” he jokes, and as he’s turning to leave he hears her say “Yes, we really should” and the world seems a little brighter as he steps out into the crisp winter air and heads to the college, feeling a slight pang of regret that he’d never found out her name nor told her his own—but maybe they’d run into one another again sometime soon (but they didn’t, he recalls—and maybe that was a good thing, because after a moment like that it’s really hard to top it).

The man takes his money (the smallness of the bills still seems odd to him, he’d gotten used to the almighty pound) and gives change back, and the highschoolers are gone and now he’s gone too, out the door and halfway down the street, thinking about Oxford.

The (Real) end of Troilus and Criseyde

This was (honest!) an answer I gave for the final exam of my freshman year Chaucer class.

I don't remember what the question was, but obviously that's not important.

Troilus and Criseyde: The Lost Chapter

Author’s Note: While researching the Chaucerian work Troilus and Criseyde, I was astounded to stumble across the account of the events of the work as told by the Roman historian Lollius. To my delight, there was an epilogue to the work which Chaucer left out of his story, and it is with great pride I present to you the final chapter of Troilus and Criseyde, as translated by me. Sadly my skills as a poet are lacking, therefore I have been forced to revert to prose, though I have done my best to capture the original intent of the author.

There are a variety of ways to end a story, and with one so tragic as the tale of Troilus and Criseyde, the author has decided to end with a brief rendition of an encounter that took place shortly after Troilus’ death. It begins, oddly enough, with a simple enough setup, more common than even “Once upon a time”:

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Three Trojans and a Greek walk into a bar. The Greek was, of course Diomede, who had decided to stop in for a post-battle drink. With him was the fair Criseyde, who was good-looking as long as the lighting was dim. The second Trojan was Pandarus, who had snuck out of Troy in order to see his niece again and invite her to Neverland Ranch, to use a colloquialism. The third Trojan was the recently reanimated corpse of Troilus, who had staggered away from the field of battle a few hours after being slain by Achilles and wanted among other things brains and a strong drink to cleanse the palette afterwards.

Criseyde was surprised to see Pandarus in the bar, and substantially more amazed to see her former lover shamble into the bar as well. There was a rather awkward silence, broken by a nervous cough from Diomede. He knew full well who Troilus was, and had heard that Troilus was determined to kill him, and he figured the victory dance around Troilus’ fallen corpse earlier in the day wasn’t earning him any points either.

“So,” Diomede said, swallowing hard and doing his best not to run away screaming, “What brings you two to our humble abode?”

“Well,” Pandarus answered, secretly glad that someone had broken the silence, “I’m just here to see my beloved niece. I got special permission from king Priam himself to come out here and visit!”

“Mrauugh.” Troilus said, which meant something along the lines of, “I’m dead and have nothing better to do. I daresay I should not be allowed back within the walls of Troy, they would doubtless think me a cruel joke. Also, I hunger for brains, perhaps the ones inside your tiny skulls. They are like fleshy acorns to me.”

“Fascinating.” Diomede said, for lack of anything better to say.

“Troilus, my love, are you alright? I never really loved Diomede anyway, I’m so happy to see you again my heart’s sweetness!” Criseyde had finally regained the power to speak acted immediately to attempt to placate the undead being standing in front of her. Diomede looked hurt for all of a few seconds, then shrugged it off.

Well, that didn’t last long. Oh well, it’s not like there won’t be plenty of ladies waiting for me on my return to Greece once this war’s over. Diomede thought to himself, it’s not like I have any real obligations to Criseyde anyway. That’s just what you have to say to get a woman in this damn country. Hah! Courtly love. What a quaint concept.

“Mrauugh.” Troilus replied to Criseyde’s comment, which meant something along the lines of “Ha! Like I’m going to buy that line. I swore unending devotion to you, agreed to keep your honor safe no matter what, and here you jump ship as soon as I show back up? Love’s about being willing to die for one another, not wearing it like a hat and taking it off when it gets too hot. We had a great traditional love, and I was ready to sacrifice everything! Additionally, could you move out of the light? The joined eyebrow thing is starting to creep me out. Oh, and I could really go for some brains.”

Pandarus nodded emphatically. “Troilus is absolutely right! You should run away with him! It would be really, really cool, I promise. I’ve got a secret hideaway where you could go, and it would be just fantastic to see you kids getting along again, especially after how long it took me to—that is, after all you two have been through.” Pandarus didn’t feel too inclined to rekindle the former romance, but he figured the best way to get out of the bar with his brains intact was to try picking back up the game where he left off. The whole concept of this courtly love was something of a novelty to Pandarus; it provided a great way to manipulate people. Dance, puppets! Dance!

“Mrauuugh.” Troilus responded, which meant something along the lines of “Actually Pandarus, I think it would be rather silly to try picking up with Criseyde where I left off. Firstly, I’m dead now, which would make intercourse a disaster. Secondly, I’m pretty sure she and I weren’t on the same page when it came to courtly love anyway. The relationship was pretty much doomed. Oh, did I mention I seem to be able to read minds? I think it’s a side effect of wanting to eat your delicious brains.”

The author will not go any further with the events of that fateful meeting. Suffice it to say that Troilus shambled out of the bar a few hours later wiping his mouth and carrying a drink with him to cleanse his palette.

Another one for the Scrapheap

Every so often I am forced to look at a story, take a deep breath, and admit that a story is just not going to sell unless I make some serious changes to it.

The problem being, of course, that most of the time I am very reluctant to make changes to my stuff, because I am just pretentious enough to think that my writing stands well enough as it is. So, I give a sigh and consign yet another effort to the scrapheap, where it'll sit until the End of Days. After writing this particular story, editing it, submitting it, getting rejected, editing it some more, making some major plot changes, submitting it again, and getting rejected again, this particular story is now in scrapheap country. I still like it, but then again I've always had a soft spot for Celtic mythology so that's rather to be expected.

So here it is, for you to read--I still think it's a good story that's worth reading, but clearly nobody is willing to pay for it so I might as well make it free.

One Thousand Years Later

The coast of Scotland had changed very little, which was not a fact that really surprised anyone at all. Sure, there was a ferry now. And yes, there was an airport to the south—but the landscape itself? Very little had altered its appearance in the last thousand years. Perhaps a little erosion here and there, but on the whole, here was a coastline that one could still recognize—assuming one was a thousand years old and spent a lot of time watching the Scottish coast.

The tide came and went, came and went, and then for a change came and went. Had there been anyone with the sort of free time to watch the ocean sweep up the beach and retreat in a ceaseless dance, that same incredibly bored person would have suddenly noticed a curious event taking place late one evening. The water came up, but this time upon its retreat there was a figure left on the shore. Not just any figure, mind you (not that our observer would know (and he wouldn't (and he doesn't exist anyway)); this was a special sort of figure. As far as figures go, it looked rather bedraggled, and rather small by modern standards. It was an old thing that didn't look old.

It took a few minutes before the figure moved, painfully pulling itself into a sitting position. It coughed, and then the cough turned into laughter, and then the laughter turned into a choked sob, and the sob turned back into a cough, and the process repeated itself. It took about twenty minutes for the figure to finish coughing and laughing and sobbing, and having finished, decided to stand. It managed to stand (though, it admitted to itself, it could have gone a lot better) and revealed itself to be a woman, one who wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep the wind from blowing through clothing that was surprisingly dry for having been washed up from the sea not twenty minutes ago.

She shivered. Things looked vaguely familiar, but that was only because he'd consented to bring drawings (and later, pictures) back with him when he went out traveling. She'd stayed behind, polishing the throne. And after that, the doors, and after that there had been the sweeping to do, and then dinner to prepare. She shivered again, and this time it wasn't because of the cold. It felt like an eternity had passed, but she knew precisely how long it had been since she'd last stood on the shore, though she could remember precious little beyond that. Time had caused her mind to become cluttered, only the faintest memories of who she was remaining. She wasn't even certain that she'd originally come from this area anymore—but she could remember exactly what she'd done.

She knew that her pride had caused her downfall, had made her ignore...someone's warning. She frowned, trying to remember their names. It was not to be.

“Now what?” She wondered aloud, relishing the sound of her own voice for the first time in years. Yes, that was it. The last few years had been spent in total silence, just for a change. Just to stick it to him. It was one of many little rebellions she'd had, though in her opinion this had probably been the best of the lot. Burning the food just meant she'd have to eat it. Not washing the floors meant she had to sleep on them—and as she was already sleeping on her bedroom floor to avoid sharing a bed, she preferred to keep them clean.

She realized she was thinking and not moving, and decided to remedy the situation. If her memory served her at all, there had been a church to the east, so she headed in that direction, hoping that she wouldn't be hit by any of those mechanical things she'd seen in pictures. Replacing horses...it didn't seem like a good idea to her, but then again the debate about whether or not it was a good idea had taken place a long time ago, and she hadn't had the chance to voice an opinion.

The church was still there, though it seemed deserted and significantly more ruined than the last time she'd seen it. It wasn't perfect, as far as a place to stay goes, but it would do until the morning. She reached into her pocket (she had pockets. Wearing anything that wasn't a dress still unnerved her, but she'd admit the pockets were convenient) and pulled out the wallet she'd been given as a parting gift. She hadn't even looked into it. Now, of course, it was too dark for any sort of investigation—the moon had decided to hide behind clouds, which led to a drizzle that she could hear on the roof. Very briefly, she missed having a home. Almost immediately, she reprimanded herself. That wasn't a home—it had been her prison for the last thousand years. This was her home, more or less. It merely remained to find her place in it.

This would, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, be more difficult than she'd like to admit.

~

The early morning sunlight streaming through the window caused a brief moment of confusion. She'd not seen the sun in a long time. The only thing she'd seen for centuries was torchlight, which had been rather easier on her eyes, she reflected. Briefly, she considered gouging her eyes out, then decided the smart thing to do would be to shade her eyes for the moment—maybe using those strange glasses she'd seen him wear once.

A thought struck her, and she felt in her other pockets for the object she hoped would be there. With a sound of delight, she pulled out the very same glasses, chuckling to herself. They had been her last act of rebellion before leaving—either he hadn't noticed she'd taken them or, more likely, he didn't care at this point. It occurred to her that she could probably feel gratitude toward him for everything he'd done to prepare her for her return, but a few years of being kind hardly made up for a thousand years of drudgery.

Her stomach growled and she realized that she was hungry. She had no idea what to do about her situation, mostly because after a certain point you simply get used to having the food appear in the kitchen. Another growl from her stomach motivated her to start walking. Hopefully a pub would be open (she hoped they still had pubs), where she could obtain something resembling breakfast. There wasn't much of anything to the north of her—just the ocean, so she headed south into what she hoped was town.

The town was not that impressive (where had the castle gone?), but she managed to find an inn that was serving breakfast, and using some of the money in the wallet, she managed to make it clear that she wanted food and was willing to pay. This was important, as her own language skills were not that sharp yet.

“Been on the beach, have yeh?” The innkeeper asked, as he brought her the long-awaited breakfast.

“Just got in this morning.” The response was delivered after a few bites of bacon had been taken.

“Oh, just this morning? That's odd, neither the ferry nor the airport's had anything come in. How'd you wind up here?”

“Swam.” This caused the innkeeper to chuckle.

“'course you did. Sorry, didn't mean to pry.”

“It's no trouble.” Well, it was, a bit. Speaking in this modern language took a lot of concentration, but at least she was getting practice. “I really did just get in this morning. I was dropped off by my... well, by my ex.” She'd heard the term used once before, and hoped it meant what she thought it did. It was satisfying to refer to him that way. Her ex. A thousand years summed up in one syllable. It was lovely.

“Well, I certainly hope you'll enjoy your stay here—have you got a place to stay?” It occurred to the innkeeper that he might be able to pick up some more business.

“Actually,” she said, pausing briefly to shovel more of her breakfast into her mouth, “I was thinking I needed a change of scenery. See what else there is out there—you know,” she made a vague gesture at the door leading outside, “see the world. What's the best way to get somewhere far away from here?”

Disappointed that he wasn't going to get any more of the woman's money, but still happy to help, the innkeeper pointed in the general direction of the airport. “Your best bet would be to fly out. You can get anywhere by air travel these days.”

“Air travel?” Ah yes, she'd forgotten. They'd learned how to fly about a hundred years ago, hadn't they? Shortly thereafter, she reflected, they'd learned how to kill one another with terrifying effectiveness (still, she'd seen battle, as a child. Lifetimes ago, it seemed (and it was)). “Oh yes, I...hadn't thought of that.”

What an odd person this guest seemed to be, the innkeeper reflected as he cleared away the dishes from the table. She looked rather young, but she carried herself like an adult. It was her eyes, he reflected, that really gave him pause. Blue eyes that showed an incredible age; the innkeeper's mother had reached one hundred years of age, and even her eyes had not carried that look in them. The vigor and interest in the eyes at their surroundings, however, seemed to the innkeeper to reflect taking everything in for the first time. It was an unnerving combination of looks, and so shortly after the woman had left, he'd done the sensible thing and forgotten all about it. It was just as well, because she was never seen on the island again. A trip to the airport saw to that.

~

It was two years later, in New York City, when he tracked her down again, just to see how she was doing. She was working as a bartender in Brooklyn, and doing fairly well for herself—'well' in this case meaning that she was able to afford rent on the small studio apartment not far off from her place of employment. It hadn't taken long for her to realize that the British Isles were too small for her—she needed to be somewhere with more space, and more importantly, somewhere where her heavy accent wouldn't go questioned. The dialect here was even further removed from what she'd initially been prepared for, but at least here it was expected that she'd have trouble with the language. Any misunderstandings could be laughed away with the simple knowledge that she was not from around here; she'd even stopped telling people she was from Scotland, settling for the more mysterious and unspecific “a long way away.”

He very nearly didn't recognize her when first he walked through the door; her hair was short now, and she wore a simple shirt with the logo of a local band and a pair of jeans. She looked far from the princess he'd had as a servant girl for a millennium. She, on the other hand, had no trouble recognizing him. He didn't change, still walking with that kingly air to him, as if he were some aristocrat rather than a beast lurking in an underwater palace.

“Of all the bars in all the cities in all the world, you walked into mine.”

“Using their quotes, are you?” He snorted, shortly before coughing. “And how are you today, my dear Faoineis?”

“S'not my name anymore.” Faoineis replied, a bit testily, “I changed it to Sarah Jane. Nice, normal name. The ID you gave me changed to reflect that, see?” Sarah/Faoineis reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, displaying the aforementioned card.

“Took another name, eh? What an interesting ability you humans possess. I cannot change my name, you know.”

“Yes, I know. You've told me before that your people have only the names humanity gave you.” Sarah seemed rather uninterested in the conversation. “Of course, if I said your name now, it would be disastrous, wouldn't it? Everyone would see what you are, wouldn't they?”

A frown crossed the man's face. “You wouldn't honestly do that, would you? After all I've done for you?”

“No, I won't do it—but it's not because of anything you've done. Can't have a horse running around in the bar, it'll cause a scene and may lose me my job. So for now, I'm going to call you Jeffery. Sound like a plan, Jefferey?”

Jefferey/the Kelpie snorted, and, if he'd still had his hooves, he would have stamped at the ground in an annoyed manner. As it was, he merely nodded approval of the situation and desperately searched for something else to talk about. “You seem to be doing well.”

“Beats polishing your throne.” It wasn't that she'd rehearsed the conversation a million times in her mind that caused the reply to come so quickly—it was the tone in his voice as he spoke. Sarah fancied he was looking down on what she'd accomplished, trying to make her believe that somehow a life in his palace was better. This was, to use a colloquialism from her new home, full of shit.

The Kelpie, for his part, was rather disappointed to see what she'd made of herself. He had been hoping to find her begging to come back, mostly because the world had changed too much in the past thousand years. You couldn't just find a gullible maiden willing to come to your palace and live with you anymore; the women seemed to be far more independent and unwilling to go somewhere sight unseen. This would not have been a problem, except for the fact that he couldn't technically lie. If they asked the right questions, he'd have to give them the answer—and women, it seemed, had gotten good at asking the right questions.

“Anyhow, what are you doing all the way out here? I didn't think your domain extended all the way across the oceans.” What Sarah didn't know yet was that she was damn lucky the Kelpie's domain did extend this far—she was part of their stories now, and if they were ever forgotten here, she'd have to move on, find somewhere else they were remembered. This would not strike her as a good situation; she liked it in the city. She liked the people and the noise and the fact that she was allowed to make her own way. She also liked one of the regulars, a girl who was about as old as Sarah looked and shared a disillusionment with the opposite sex—the two talked often, but nothing more than that (much to Sarah's frustration).

“Ah, but I am talked about here. There are some who remember me, and while they may not believe in me, they'd know who I am.” A note of pride was in the Kelpie's voice. “I'm in their schools, and some students wonder what it would be like to meet me. That's enough.”

Sarah failed to feign any sense of being impressed. “Well, there's one mystery solved. Now why the hell are you here? I don't recall asking you to track me down.”

Here the Kelpie hemmed and hawed. It was not certain that it wanted to admit that it missed her, so it settled for “Oh, you know. Just checking up on you, that's all.”

“Well, you've checked.” By this point, she just wanted him out. He may have missed her, but the feeling was far from mutual. “Anything else you came here for?”

“Yes, um, well.” The sight of the Kelpie fidgeting nervously brought a feeling of satisfaction to Sarah. It was nice—refreshing, almost—to see the roles reversed. “I don't suppose you have any questions about how things work?”

“Just one question: Do I age, now?” The expression of discomfort that flitted across the Kelpie's face confirmed what Sarah had feared. “I don't, do I?”

“You're a creature of myth, now.” The Kelpie admitted. “You'll grow old and die, yes, but as soon as you die here you'll pop up again on the shore, ready to do it all again. This will be the case until our stories are completely forgotten.”

“I'm one of the stories?” This was a lot to take in. “Am I even human now?”

“More or less. You're a mythical human. You're just like everyone else—a little harder to kill, maybe, but human to the core. But you're also a part of a cautionary tale against the perils of vanity. You've learned the lesson—but others have not. Your story—our story—helps others to learn their lesson.”

Sarah gestured to a man standing at the other end of the bar, and made it clear through motions that she was going to take a quick break. Walking outside, she stared up at the night sky and lit a cigarette. Exhaling slowly, she tried to wrap her head around what she'd just been told. She didn't notice the Kelpie had followed her out until he spoke again.

“I'm sorry about this.”

“Bit late for apologies.” Sarah concentrated on keeping herself calm. It wouldn't do to scream and shout—as she'd eventually realized during her imprisonment, what's done was done. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

“Eventually,” The Kelpie said, attempting to provide some solace, “they'll forget about us. Look what happened to Lugh. He's a completely different person now.”

“So eventually, I'll get to die, and go to the Otherworld, or wherever we go now, eh?” A bitter smile played across Sarah's lips. “I've traded one prison for another, is that what you're trying to say?”

“You could always come back.” The statement hung uncomfortably in the air, followed by the sound of air leaving the Kelpie's lungs as Sarah's fist slammed into his stomach.

“Get out of here, Jefferey, before I say your true name.” Sarah's eyes blazed with anger. “I'll take my freedom to do what I will here, and I'll keep coming back again until I'm forgotten. Find another girl, or try men on for size if you want—they've probably gotten easier to grab than us by now anyway. I don't care what you do, so long as you stay the hell away from me and mine.”

“You and yours?” Jefferey laughed, his annoyance at her defiance getting the better of his tact. “You don't have a 'yours!' You're all alone here, a fish out of water! You'll make mistakes and suffer here; and when things get as bad as they can you'll have to come back and do it all over again.”

“Sounds fun.” Sarah smirked. “I'll take it. Now get out of here, Kelpie.”

The handsome man was gone. In its place was a terrifying specter of a horse, with seaweed in its mane. It reared back, and made off like a shot for the shore. Sarah crushed her cigarette beneath her shoe and walked back into the bar. That night, she asked the girl if she'd like to go out for coffee the next day.

~

It had been fifty years. A woman found herself on the beach, washed up by the sea but oddly dry. She stood up, brushed the sand off of her pants, checked her wallet, and walked back into the city. Maybe this time she'd go to Norway. She heard that some of the Norse were still running around—Thor apparently threw some good parties. A tune not heard in over a thousand years came into her mind, and Faoineis whistled as she made her way down the streets, idly wondering whether or not she'd be able to get her job as a bartender back.