"You’re not Irish are you?" Everyone normally assumes it, so of course, I was intrigued by the man who would soon become my first college boyfriend.
"And, how do you know that?" I whipped around staring into the blacks of his eyes. We were at The West End Gate, and I was sitting at the bar people watching, drinking seltzer with lime on the rocks.
"You’re too damn feisty."
"You don’t know me from Eve. How do you know I’m feisty?"
"Well, my mother’s Irish, and you’re nothing like my mother. Besides, I can just tell." And with the smile, and steps closer to me, that preceded his statement, I believed him. He was the all-knowing saint; I was our redheaded non-Irish sinner. It was hot.