CROATIAN INTERLUDE

She liked a gargle. She had just told me this, about how she was the wild child in the family, how her mum always worried about her and here she was thirty five years old and still not married and all her friends had settled down and what was going to become of her. I looked at her across the table of the slightly fancy restaurant I had taken her to. Her returned gaze was open and direct. We had just met less than an hour ago on the riva, as the locals called the café bar promenade. I had noticed her earlier in the day when she had walked by among the crowd. She was medium height with a generous figure and her dark hair was a wild tangle of long curls. I noted a strong pair of calves and sandalled feet below a long dark blue skirt. She disappeared in the late afternoon throng and I resumed my people watching.
Then later, on another part of the riva, I saw her again, sitting alone at a table reading a paperback. I couldn’t quite make out the book but I guessed it was English and I wondered if she was also, or an Australian perhaps hitching around Europe. By this time the sun was setting over the hill beyond the harbour, although there was still a comforting warmth rising from the old stones. I debated with myself as to whether I should try and approach her. I was alone in the town and she looked like she would be pleasant company. I wasn’t exactly unattached, neither was I thinking about contriving a pick-up, but it would be a nice change to have someone to talk to.

I sat at the table next to her and tried to observe her without being too obvious. The book lay on the table and I could see it was a John Grisham. As I looked over I noticed that she was watching me quite openly with an amused smile on her face.
- I’m sorry, I said. – Somehow feeling stupid and awkward. - Are you English?
- No, she said, still smiling. I’m Irish. Where are you from?
- Scotland, but I’m working here for a while.
I rose from my seat and moved over to her table.
- Would you mind if I joined you, I said. Sometimes you get desparate for a yarn.
She smiled warmly.
- That’s what I was thinking too.
Her name was Maeve and she was from Cork. She was a social worker, working with handicapped adults. This was her first holiday in a couple of years and she had decided to start the first week on her own then she would meet up with her friends down in Dubrovnik later.

Our conversation drifted around for a while and then coasted to a stop. I wanted to stay with her but I wasn’t sure if she was of the same mind.
- Look , I said. – Have you eaten? Only, there’s a nice fish restaurant just up the hill there and I’m usually eating on my own, so…
She picked up her book and placed it in a bag, smiled at me and said
- Let’s go then.

Now here we were in the restaurant. The food was as good as I had told her. We had shared a bottle of wine and I felt easy in her company.
I studied her face for a while as the conversation lulled. She held my gaze with greenish-brown eyes behind which I could sense a warmth.
- What are you doing tomorrow? She asked.
I thought for a while about what exactly I had to do the next day. There was a busy work schedule, I had to phone home and find out how our youngest had got on at school.
I noticed, as I looked at her, a small mole on her left cheek just outboard of her lips. As she smiled the mole sank into a dimple.
- I don’t know, I said. What would you like to do?