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two crimestories
He was still there two
hours later, though no
longer in the kitchen. He
was sitting on the couch
in the living room, staring
through the glass door
into the backyard.
“A fat pigeon has been
sitting out there for
hours, waiting for the cat
to pounce.” He spoke with
an Irish lilt. I decided not
to ask about it though,
since
my
supposed
interest might encourage
him to stay. As far as I
was concerned, he could
vanish this very moment
in a puff of smoke or
crumble into a pile of
dust. I decided to actually
tell him this in so many
words.
Flann shrugged. “I can’t. I
now belong to you.”
I said: “I don’t want you!”
He couldn’t have cared
less. “I would like to
remind you again about
the coffee,” is all he said.
“You have to leave!”
He
laughed.
“Where
would I go?”
“No idea. One door down?
Sandra would certainly be
delighted, since her son
has the second sight.”
“I’m a Púca. I stay where
I am.”
I held my smartphone
under his nose and
announced, not without
a trace of victory: “No,
you’re not. I looked it up.
Read it yourself. Púcas
come in animal form.”
He threw a bored look at
the display. “How many
Púcas do you think the
poor idiot who wrote that