A Siren in New York

The scene itself was nothing out of the ordinary: It was St. Patrick's Day, after all. The annual throng of revelers packed O'Malley's Irish Pub on 8^th Avenue, tenuously grasping at their tangential Irish heritages as a sad excuse to drink themselves into a stupor every March 17^th. It was the one week of the year that Finnick O'Malley helped his father tend bar. And he hated every minute of it.

Frankly, there was little he loathed more than the swarm of tourists, donned in their "Kiss me I'm Irish" souvenir T-shirts and with their faces painted with tiny shamrocks, that descended on the pub every year. Though it was situated barely a brisk walk from Times Square, the pub's usual clientele consisted of Manhattan locals or professionals that had become "road trip regulars" while in the City for business. Things would return to normal in the following days, but until then it was all Finnick could do to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

By the time the dinner hour rolled around, Finnick has lost all patience. The bar had been open since ten o'clock in the morning – a fact evident on the faces of each patron that had been there since that time. They'd already had at least a dozen drunkards removed from the premises and cut off nearly twice that many. Things were only going to get busier as the night wore on, and Finnick finally broke down and poured himself a glass of whisky. He nearly dropped the glass when he saw her walk in.

Despite the shoulder to shoulder standing room, she glided her way through the crowded pub as if it were empty. His gaze began with the weathered, brown leather boots that rose from her heels to just below her knees. Her slender yet muscular legs were covered with black leggings. To complete the ensemble she wore an oversize peasant blouse that slid off her left shoulder. Belted at the waist with a wide, brown leather belt with a large, round, gold buckle, the blouse, though flowing, did little to hide her ample breasts or the perfect curvature of her behind.

Auburn locks danced from her head in waves down across her shoulders, ending just above the small of her back. It was her emerald eyes that mesmerized him the most. Even in the dim and dingy light of the bar, her eyes glowed as if illuminated from within. Finnick watched her, oblivious to all around him, as she strode up to a large, drunken man seated at the far end of the bar. With a simple tap on his shoulder and a flick of her head, she silently commanded the fool to vacate his seat. Surprisingly he did so without question, and without even a vain attempt to woo the woman. Finnick was intrigued. He wandered down to take her order.

"What can I do for you, miss?"

"Now that's the question, isn't it?" she replied in a far thicker Irish accent that he was prepared to hear. "Aye, that is the question indeed, Finnick O'Malley."

Finnick cocked his head with curiosity. "And how exactly do you know my name?"

She laughed. "My dear Finnick, I know everything about you."

"Do you know?" he asked, stepping back in surprise. "Please, enlighten me."

She ignored his jibe. "You asked what you could do for me. Take my hand."

There was something both alluring and sinister about her and Finnick's sense bade him turn away. Despite his instinct, however, he found himself unable to resist and reach his hand across the bar. At the moment her flesh caressed his he felt a jolt of energy course through his veins and his eyes close involuntarily. He felt as if he'd been drunk, hung over and drunk again in less than a moment. When he opened his eyes, however, he had no idea what had happened.

He was standing in the middle of Times Square and there was nothing around him but silence. No cars, no people, no horns or voices. There were simply empty streets and the flashing lights of the billboards that illuminated the square each night as if the sun was but an afterthought.

"It's much more pleasant this way, don't you think?" The woman said from behind him, startling him.

"How is this possible?" he asked as he turned to face her.

"Anything is possible," she said seductively as she stepped towards him and played with the collar of his shirt. Finnick had more questions but found the ability to articulate them completely absent, save for one.

"Who are you?"

"You can call me Moira."

Finnick shook his head and some of the cloudiness cleared away. "What are you? How did you do this?"

Moira answered him with a forceful, passionate kiss. His mind instantly filled with love and passion to the point that he felt as if he'd die when their lips parted. He did not, but nevertheless was still overcome with desire as she stepped back and spoke again.

"There is something you can do for me, Finnick, and when you're done you won't remember this place, this life. That's ok, isn't it?" She whispered directly into his ear before teasing his earlobe with her teeth.

Again, in the briefest moment of lucidity, Finnick pushed her back. "You're a siren, aren’t you?"

Moira smiled. "Aye, you are a smart one, aren't you?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No, my handsome lover, I'm not going to kill you. I simply need you to do something for me."

Moira leaned forward and kissed him again. Her touch erased any inhibition or apprehension that Finnick had felt.

"Anything," he promised, as if he had a choice….

© J.J. Goodman 2014. All rights reserved.