Maria McCourt
Marie McCourt was a catholic girl with solid beliefs. Married with three children, and well-respected in the local area. Even after three births, she still had a figure of a woman ten years her junior.
She worked in a small Irish bar and had been there for about eight years.
Marie was 5'6 with long brown hair, her complexion was dark, and men always commented on her brown eyes. She was more often mistaken for being Latina, as opposed to her Irish roots.
In the bar
It was a Thursday; the bar was less than full. Marie served at the old oak bar while the regulars were engrossed in the evening's sports on the TV.
The door opened, and in stepped six men dressed ruggedly. She immediately knew they were foreigners before they had spoken. Being so close to the port, it wasn't unusual for sailors to come into the pub, especially midweek.
"Yes, gentlemen, what can I get you?"
"Six beers."
The accent was broad and as rugged as their clothes, the men sat at a table, and Marie filled a tray with beers. As she brought them over to the table, she could hear them talking in their language, and she placed the beers from the tray onto the table.
"Who's got the tab tonight, gents?"
"Run up a tab, can we?"
"Sorry, pub policy, you need to pay as you go."
The one with the broken English, and who did the talking, reached into his dirty coat to fish out some money and handed it to Marie.
"Change you keep."
"Thank you."
She moved back to the bar, and the men were now talking between themselves, all bent over the table, hushed voices even though they spoke in their tongue. She became suspicious as the men would look over to her then go back to their discussion. Marie was long enough in the tooth that she knew when men were discussing her.
She pretended to be watching the TV with the rest of the pub brushing it off as male banter no matter how childish it was.
Marie caught them looking over again, this time more questioningly, the conversation continuing as they watched her. This now was more blatant and probably needed to be checked, she thought.
"Where are you from"? Her sudden turning to face them and asking abruptly had caught them all out.
"We are from Russia, and we boat here," they responded in their broken English.
"Are you here long?" she kept it friendly.
"Tomorrow we go, 0500 hours we leave."
Marie let them talk amongst themselves as she went back to watching the TV. She knew they were discussing her but put it down to them being possibly at sea for a while and not seeing any women in that time. The thought did disgust her, her strong beliefs and proper upbringing, not having much patience or tolerance for their behaviour.
Marie served more drinks to regulars and the thirsty sailors.
She was cleaning down the bar when the man who had spoken earlier approached.
"Hello." His approach was gentle and cautious.
"What can I get you, sir"? her professionalism rising.
"My name is Oleg, and I apologize if my comrades have offended you, and it is you who are beautiful." His eyes kept contact with her own.
"I'm sure a dead pig would look good to your friends just now," she said as she looked over his shoulder.
"We did not mean to offend, but see we have, in our country we buy someone a drink if we make unhappy unfairly, we drink with them. Allow us to offer you that." Again, his approach was soft.
"There is no need."
"Please, we insist." A tone of hurt in his voice.
"Please bring seven vodkas."
Handing over the money as he was joined at the bar by his friends. Marie, not being one for a drink, also prided herself on not being ignorant; taking seven shot glasses from the shelf, she filled them with vodka before turning from the sailors and placing the bottle back on the shelf.
As she stepped back, one of the men held a glass towards her; she instinctively took it from him out of politeness.
"We apologize and drink to be happy," they offered.
She lifted the glass and drank it down in one. She did feel something was off though. She knew it wasn't the taste of the shot, it seemed fine; rather good actually, no it was only how the men looked at her as she downed the drink then placing the empty glass onto the bar, All six men cheered and raised their arms.
Marie smiled. The men paid for another round.
"We do more"? they called.
"Honestly, I can't. I'm not a drinker," she said with her open palms in the air and a broad warm smile on her face.
"You make us HAPPY if you drink." The happy was raised and course with his accent.
As he finished his sentence, something clicked. Marie had already been turning for the bottle when she noticed. It had been when he had said happy, she suddenly felt good about making him happy. Really good.
"Enjoy."
Marie filled the seven glasses again; she returned the bottle to the counter as before and as she turned back the same man held out her glass like a repeat, she thought twice about drinking it. The first one was to be polite, but she never drank when working, seldom when not working.
"We would be happy to share a drink." She headed him again.
There it was once more, that warm feeling of making him happy. Marie took the glass and downed the clear liquid surprisingly easily. They watched her as she placed the drained glass on the bar and another cheer for her participation in their custom. She liked they all seemed to be happy she was making an effort.
"We go now," he said.
"It was nice to meet you all, and if you are ever back in our town, please come by." Slightly disappointed they were leaving so soon, she found herself hoping they had enjoyed her hospitality and would return again.
"Yes, we will." The man translating said before being nudged on his upper arm by one of the younger men. "It would make us very happy to see you again."
"I'm here every Monday to Friday." She found herself delighted they would be happy for her to entertain them again.
"You have make us happy. It would makes us VERY HAPPY to see you before we go."
That feeling was so good, looking around the pub to see the regulars still watching the TV.
"I'm a married woman in a small town, and it wouldn't look right. I mean, it's a small town, what would people say?"
"They say you done a good job to make them so happy."
Marie was now contemplating leaving the pub with the dirty, ragged sailors; she knew it would look bad, yet the reward for making them happy at such a simple request was beyond nice.
"Ok, I will walk you back to your hotel," she said, and as she did she noticed the group smile when the man translated it back to them, It felt good to see the visitors smile.
"We stay on the boat," he informed her as he returned to face her.
"Well to the harbour them."
The men left the pub; Marie collected a few glasses before slipping out without anyone noticing.
Once outside, the sailors had moved into a close group and puffs of smoke filled their circle. She could see all but one held a cigarette. It was dark and cold out she noticed. She looked up and down the street, no one around.
Soon she found herself in the middle of the group; she walked along the street with the men along the familiar road towards the marina.
"I'm happy for your hand." The group's translator, arms outstretched.
The thought of what it would look like, her walking scruffy sailors home was bad enough but holding one of their hands, a married woman, it was just wrong. Yet, her hand was now in his, the coldness of the night gone with the touch and heat from his hand, the feeling of joy from him being happy was now euphoric.
As they crossed the main street, all the shops were closed, and still, no one was around other than the seven of them. Two of the men became involved in an apparent dispute, and they argued in Russian before one shoved the other.
"Why are they arguing"? she was concerned that the unhappiness would spread through the group.
"Ah, it is you."
The thought of these men now unhappy and unhappy because of her suddenly caused her great concern. Why did she care if they were happy or not? She didn't know. But she did.
"Bigger says that you must be a great kisser, unhappily littler man he says you won't kiss a man in public," he said, gesturing to the two.
"I kiss my husband. He never complains," she defended herself.
"As he says, he is unhappy that you won't kiss other men, that he won't know how happy it is to kiss you, and he never kissed a woman as beautiful before."
Marie stepped from the translator letting his hand go, still in the middle of the crowd, she walked over to the smaller man; he was probably the youngest in the group, he looked around eighteen, his hair ragged and unkempt, his cheeks a rose red, he was boyishly cute but looked very insecure and nervous. She realized she was slightly taller than him. As she came face to face with him, she gently placed both her hands on his cheeks. She pulled his face forward to hers while softly pressing his face and his lips puckered, her own lips pouting as she brought them into contact with his, slowly pressing against the young man's.
Prude or not, she knew the boy enjoyed it and felt good that she made him feel this way. She pulled back after several seconds to a quiet group.
"There is your first kiss, sweetheart," she offered.
Now aware that the man who had been arguing with the boy was now harking to the translator Oleg, she turned back to Oleg.
"What's wrong now"?
"He is now unhappy, and he wants to kiss you."
Unaware that she had now moved to the man, as she turned around, she was in front of him. She moved to kiss him, wanting to make him happy also. He took her by surprise as he grabbed her, his grip pulling her tight against him. His breath was terrible and his touch rough. If she weren't so keen to make him happy, she would feel sick by this older man.
His lips rough against hers, his tongue prodding out and into hers, she could tell the man liked this, and she accommodated him as she tapped into his pleasure.