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Two weeks had passed since Kimberly had first encountered that tiny man in her cupboard, since then she had seen no trace of him.  Maybe she was right in thinking that  he was only a figment of her imagination.  Even so, the last time she put the peanuts away she made sure that the lid wasn’t too tight.

The radio blared in the kitchen, bouncing the best hits of the 80’s and 90’s off the walls and throughout the house.  Kimberly sang along to the music as she tackled the dishes and cups overflowing from the sink.  Over the last week with the coming of better weather and no sighting of the tiny Mike Finnegan, she had found a cheerfulness that she hadn’t found in what felt like years.

During a particularly loud rendition of “All the Single Ladies” she heard a loud rap and then the music died.  There on top of the radio sat Mike, swinging his cane.

“What in tarnation is the meaning of all this racket?” he asked, clutching his head. “In my day, people caught singin’ like that were put in the stocks.”

Kimberly couldn’t help but stare.  Seeing him again meant one of two things, either he was indeed real, or she needed her head examined.  “So…,” she rubbed her temples, “you’re real then.”

“As real as the smelly pile of laundry in yer closet.”

“What?!?” She slapped the counter.  The thought of a strange little man in her kitchen was one thing, knowing he was raiding her closet was a more serious offence.

Mike blushed and shuffled his feet, “Erm, forget I said that.”

“Don’t think I can.” Kimberly planted her hands on her hips. “What am I going to do with you?”

Mike jumped down from the radio and began pacing across the countertop. “Well Missy, most tend to ignore me but I can be quite handy.”

“Like how?”

“Well, I’m a tinker, right?”

“I thought you were a leprechaun, is there a difference?”

Mike banged his cane against the counter with a snap. “Now you understand this, no one calls Mike Finnegan a leprechaun.  Little gold obsessed good fer nothin’ mites, they are.” He spat, emphasizing his point.

“Hey, none of that!” She tossed him a cloth from the sink. “Clean it up.”

He grumbled as he wiped up the spot, something about how gingers had a temper.  She couldn’t make out most of it, and was glad for it.

“A tinker, miss, fixes things.  It’s what we live for.  That squeak in the garage door, the one that mysteriously disappeared, that was me.”  He tossed the cloth back, which to him seemed more like a blanket.  “A tinker is happiest when there are things to mend, that’s why we love these old houses.  Always something that needs a fix.”

Kimberly nodded, tapping her chin. Someone who sould fix things around the house would be nice. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, you lets me borrow things from here and there, a pinch of food, and what not.  A touch of whiskey is always a nice gesture.  Do that, and I’m more than happy staying here doin’ what I do.” He said with a flourish.

“Alrighty Mr. Mike, you can stay.  Just promise me not to riffle through my personal items.  None of the drawers in the bedroom.”

“And the whiskey. . .?” He asked, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

“We’ll see in time.  When I can see things working out well between us then yes, I’ll get you some.”

He danced a little jig, swinging his tiny cane in time to his steps.

“Oh miss? There is one more thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Promise me never to get a cat.”

Kimberly giggled at the image in her head of tiny Mike being chased by a cat.  “Ok, I promise.”

“Good doing business with ya.” He tipped his hat and with a flash, vanished.

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