Smells of Potatoes

After having bid Claire a tearful goodbye, I sat, so alone, staring wistfully into space on an airport chair, which, by the way, are surprisingly ergonomic, when an Irishmen intercepted my gaze. Stole it, in fact, by smiling stupidly into my eyes until I noticed him. He plopped down next to me and the smell was instantly overwhelming. The potato famine, I assure you, is over. This man had gorged himself on (bathed in?) potatoes. Immediately he started to speak of politics. Why is it that such men always talk of politics? To the rest of the world it is embarrassingly clear that this fat, spittle-flecked Irishmen could not be more out of touch with the political climate in America, and yet he expounded upon it. "Fookin Hilary... (Gallic muttering...) goin on out eh?" I smiled and nodded, as one should. He continued. The smell was overwhelming, like nothing I'd experienced before. "' 'Ell you get out there, you fookin lie eh? Bill comes in...heh heh...teaches her 'ow..." Was he waiting for a response? No, he didn't need me. "Calls her, says ay, fookin French out there... (Gallic cursing...) come out smellin a fookin roses." No idea what was just said. Smile and nod? Bingo.
My eyes water, I've suffered several shaming facial blows by the man's yellow saliva, I can't go on. Jesus, who I've since started believing in, came to my aid. Another Irishmen with a horn, the instrument mind you, approached my Irishmen from behind. They embraced. My Irish enquires after the other Irish's horn, which is not even in its case, as luggage should be, but brightly, shiningly naked. He responds with a playful toot. My Irishman laughs. My eyes reconnect with space.