That Thing I Can Barely Think I Say

I grabbed hold of him before he could run or disappear or whatever they do when spotted. This did not go down well. There was some kicking and spitting and mostly swearing. Some really impressive swearing. “Let me go!”

“So long as I get my wishes!” I responded.

Immediately the little fella stopped kicking. “Is that all? Fine, ya can have some wishes. That's only fair for all the whiskey I've had off you.”

I set him back down. “Shall we drink on it?”

“So long as we're still drinking your whiskey, I'm fine with that.” He reclaimed the bottle he'd been drinking from before I grabbed him. “You'll have to pour your own.”

“It is my own.” I pointed out, trying to not sound bitter about it.

“All the more reason for you to drink it then,” was his response.

I splashed some whiskey into the glass I'd been using earlier that night. As the little gentleman extended his bottle, well my bottle that he was drinking from, I leaned my glass over to clink then together. “To your very good health sir,” he offered.

“And yourself.” We drank. “May I ask you a question?”

“If you feel you must,” he answered.

“Why were you drinking my whiskey?”

He laughed. “It was there. I never thought you'd notice so soon. I figured that the lady had bought a case or so and was stocking up for a time. Maybe she'd gotten a deal on it, somethin' like that. We like doing fun stuff like that. So when I checked in the next day and there was more, I figured it was my lucky day. You made yourself quite a generous host.”

“I suppose I did. I wasn't sure where it was going.”

“Well it was going to the 'no benefit to my liver' club.” He chuckled. “Why do you have all this whiskey then? Why didn't ya just leave a bottle in here and be done with that if you didn't know what was going on?”

“That thought never occurred to me.”

“Blame it on the whiskey then?”

“Yeah, that too.”

Energetically he finished off the bottle, clearly having enjoyed it. “You have picked a fine beverage here, fine beverage indeed. Now then, I suppose we should start talking about those wishes then.”

I shook. My hands quivered. To be this close, finally this close...it's almost more than I could bear. “Yes.” My voice was a croak.

“Looks like you either need more whiskey or less.” He encouraged me to pour a bit more whiskey into my glass. “Less is rarely the right answer. Drink up.”

I did. It barely burned as it flowed down my throat. I stared at the glass. I breathed deeply. I fought the shakes.

“It's not normally this complicated a process,” noted the leprechaun with some concern. “You alright?”

“I'm, I'm trying to phrase this properly,” I explained. “No monkey's paw type shenanigans.”

“Would I be up to something like that now?”

“Because...I want my Sarah Jane back.”

“Boyo, I don't do love potions and that sort of thing...”

I interrupted. “She didn't leave me. She left life. Or life left her. Ugh. I'm trying to say she's dead. How do I wish her back properly?”