I haven’t had time to write anything new to share, but I found this scrap of a story while going through some old papers. I wrote it ages ago, back when I was falling off barstools in pubs a lot. Enjoy — lk

The Ginger Woman

c. Lisa Kaiser 2023

“A pint of plain is your only man.”—Flann O’Brien

Oh the games I’ve played on Dublin afternoons as the innocent abroad stumbling into the black stuff, the life force, the ritual of the pint. Maurice showed me how that first night. First it’s admired while it partitions into pure black and white sectors: then stiffen your back for the long cold drink, raise it to your mouth, and plunge your upper lip into the cushion of foam. Come up for air and let the froth stick on your lip, shake and suck a bit, then scrape it off with your hand or teeth. Contemplate life and hauntings and burdens while the rings mark time down the glass.

It’s always the same story. Donal’s intellect, the lorry driver’s isolation, Leo’s smugness, Jack’s accusations. The castle’s cook and the bachelors from Cork. Tom and Ben polluted again. Even your man Maguire, the sap.

Then one day Jimmy broke my heart.

In Hell’s Kitchen now, I leave a lipstick crescent on my drink’s crown and remember. They start off sweet and turn bitter, best left a little undrunk and undone.