copyright©2025
The Czech Bridget Jones
That evening, Jack introduced me to another one of his friends—Gary. He was one of those effortlessly charming types: neatly cropped hair, a toothpaste-ad American smile, and that irreverent, slightly disheveled charisma that only an Irishman can truly pull off. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement, as if perpetually entertained by a private joke.
We were at the Manor House, where a karaoke night was in full swing. The three of us stood near the bar, watching the brave and the foolish take to the stage, offering themselves up for musical sacrifice. Gary, it was clear, was enjoying every minute of it. Then, in a rare lull between songs, he started to sing—softly, almost under his breath, just for the two of us.
And it stopped me. His voice—low, rich, velvet-smooth—was arresting. I hadn’t expected it. I wanted him to keep singing, to fill the silence with that voice, but he shrank back shyly, almost as if he’d said too much already.
I have to admit, I liked him that night. Not in a calculated, flirty sort of way—he simply swept me up in the whirlwind of his energy, that impish charm that seemed to spill out of him without effort. But unlike Jack’s other friends, I hardly knew Gary at all.
Some evenings later, toward the end of my shift, the two of them appeared at the counter—Jack and Gary. I glided out of the kitchen with the poise of a woman on a mission, determined to leave an impression.
“So, what’s it going to be?” I asked with a confidence I only half-felt.
They placed their order, and I moved with the well-rehearsed rhythm of a short-order pro—everything flipping neatly onto the grill.
“No tomatoes,” Gary called out. “I don’t eat tomatoes—I’m not a rabbit!” He laughed at his own joke like it was comedy gold.
Alright then. No tomatoes. Stay calm, Teri. You’ve got this. You look good, you know what you’re doing, you’re nailing it.
I dashed back into the kitchen to grab something, then turned on my heel and hurried back out. And that’s when it happened. My foot hit a slick patch of grease, and in an instant I was airborne—launched like a human cannonball straight under the till. I landed hard, flat on my back, limbs sprawled inelegantly.
For a moment I just lay there, dazed, replaying the moment in my mind like a film clip stuck on repeat. I was laughing soundlessly, too embarrassed to move. And the worst part? I knew they were still standing there, watching the entire spectacle unfold. The silence hanging above me was unbearable.
Elaine rushed over, wide-eyed and breathless, asking if I was alright. She offered me a hand and helped me to my feet. Jack and Gary were frozen in place, faces unreadable, not a single word escaping their lips. I could feel the blush climbing all the way down my back. I couldn’t understand it—why weren’t they laughing?
Years later, Jack finally told me the truth. The moment they stepped out of the bistro, they burst into helpless, hysterical laughter that carried them all the way down the street.
There were times when I truly felt like Bridget Jones—if Bridget were trapped inside a madcap, farcical spin-off of her own diary.
At that point, I still hadn’t learned all the quirks of Irish life. One of the things no one tells you is that many shops close for lunch around one o’clock. I had wandered into a homeware shop around then—just a quick browse, a few mugs, a new plate maybe. I drifted between the shelves like someone auditioning for a lifestyle magazine, examining ceramics and running my fingers over textures, trying to imagine which ones best suited my flat.
The other customers were doing the same, so I let myself fall into that gentle, absent-minded rhythm of window shopping.
But after ten minutes or so, something shifted. I looked up—and realized I was alone. The air felt heavier, the lighting dimmed. Squinting toward the entrance, I saw it: a giant steel gate, drawn down and locked into place.
Panic gripped me. Oh no. I’d been locked in.
I thought maybe someone might still be at the till—counting cash or closing up—but the moment I stepped forward, a shrieking alarm exploded through the store. I froze, heart thudding, limbs rigid. Upstairs, I heard footsteps.
“Frank, there’s someone downstairs. Go check it out,” came a voice from above.
I stood there, pale and motionless, caught in a moment so surreal it didn’t feel real. Should I run? Explain? Apologize? The alarm blared louder with every second. And then the shop owner appeared at the top of the stairs, staring down at me as if I were some kind of spectral intruder.
“I... I was just shopping,” I managed to stammer. That was all I could say.
He broke into a smile—relieved, I think, that I wasn’t wielding a crowbar or wearing a ski mask. From outside, curious passersby gathered at the window, peering in at the woman standing stock-still in the middle of the shop, clutching a ceramic mug like a shoplifter caught mid-heist.
Oh god... why is it always me? I thought miserably, as the owner gently took the mug from my hand, scanned it, and placed it in a plastic bag. Then he escorted me to the side exit, chuckling to himself the whole way.
On the way home, I replayed the incident in my mind, scene by scene, as though it were a badly edited comedy sketch. When I got home and opened the bag, I found a roll of wallpaper inside—clearly tossed in by accident at the till.
Perfect. Now they’ll think I stole that too.
copyright©2025
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