Paul’s stores of forbearance are running low in the tourist season

Lunchtime, and I’m hand-beading upstairs at my worktable in Paul’s shop. My mind is as calm as a goldfish in a bowl; hand-beading is good that way, being so simple and repetitive.

“Your soup is here,” Paul calls up. I put down my wire cutters. Gather my wits. I might need them during lunch; Paul’s stores of forbearance are running dangerously low these days, what with it being the tourist season. I descend the stairs, looking forward to tomato soup. Hopefully with a crusty white roll, as requested, rather than disappointing soda bread, as not.

“Soup,” he says, pointing at the table and looking past me at an American tourist who is loudly admiring a chest of drawers. “And soda bread,” he says, with perverse satisfaction, looking at me like he’s about to pin a butterfly to a board. Hard. He tears up his bread, giving the American tourist the same look only this time like he wants to pin it harder. With a thicker, blunter pin.