We were at that old dining table, the one I’d been dragging behind me since college, having finished our first annual St. Patrick’s Day dinner. I had a half pint of green-tinted beer in front of me; she had half a plate of corned beef and cabbage in front of her.
We were talking about important things like the tenability of Irish folklore.
Why, do you think, I asked, would anyone ever have believed in little people living amongst the clover playing all sorts of trickery and creating all sorts of trouble?
Why wouldn’t they believe in such things, she asked.
I lifted the glass to my mouth and sighed: green is not the color of potable things. You can’t be telling me, I said, you believe leprechauns exist.
You can’t prove to me, she said without pause, they don’t.
By the next St. Patrick’s Day, we would be divorced, irreconcilably so, and I would spend much time blaming the leprechauns.
Jay Todd studied writing with Frederick Barthelme and Mary Robison at the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi and now teaches at Xavier University of Louisiana. His fiction has appeared in journals such as the Southern California Review, the Chicago Quarterly Review, Fiction Weekly, and 971 Magazine.