Hugh drowned in the stagnant scent of liquor, bliss displacing, in imperceptible degrees, the flat mask of disdain donned everywhere but to McDonagh's Pub.

The floor planks in McDonagh's, pock-marked in long parallel lines, silently testify to erstwhile rows of army surplus bunk beds, tainted male body odor rancid with Thunderbird, and bloodless, bi-dimensional bodies of alcohol demented men crushed by the weight. Foundation and rafter of the bunker-like edifice are prone to shift and moan as if longing for the structure's more noble and intended purpose: a half-way house for wayward, alcohol addicted, Christian men. Back then, every third evening volunteers of the World of Life Baptist Ministry would collect the gutter's catatonic male bodies, feed them, bed them, and preach to them come morning. Now, windowless and low ceilinged, perpetually heavy with translucent tobacco air, the ill-suited and absurd building fortified man's fight against gravity by extolling spirits over spirituality rather than the reverse. Centered above the bar in black and white, a more guileless vestige of things past: The Lord Helps Those Who Help Themselves.

Dana was well into her first Absolute when Hugh made his way to the bar and ordered the first of his Gaelic pints. Their greeting was imbued with mock formality, defying for all to see the taboo repeatedly obliterated by their weekly rendezvous at McDonagh's:

"Professor," she began with a bow of make believe deference.

"Ms. Saunders," he rejoined, successfully matching her level of sarcasm but for the smile which he could not conceal.

At McDonagh's, the two were insulated from University students and faculty alike. For one thing, McDonagh's was eclipsed by an hour's drive and a county line. But more than that, McDonagh's was too much of a drinker's bar to make welcome the University genotype: no frozen drinks, no non-smoking section, no karioke: just hard liquor and Guinness on direct, natural draught.