A Guitar and a Brogue

"I think I feel tan, but really I'm just freckled. Curse of an Irishman."

"Worth it for her reactions. An yours, this time ‘round. What, you don’t like being worried?”

"Oh, it was a turbulent evening, of course…filled with strapping young men and nubile vixens engaging in all forms of filth and debauchery over a bit of bubbly."

"…’No one’ is an odd sort of pet name, but I’ll play along…"

"Oh." 

"Still doesn’t concern you. Someday, you’ll learn to mind your own business."

"Well, you’re alive.  So that’s a plus.  What were you doing, anyway, if I’m allowed to ask?"

"C’mon, we were just screwing around. You know how it is. One second, she was fine, right? And then next-

"Times like this, I can understand why Elsa spends half her time being put out with you. Don't fuck with me like that again, ye little shite."

"It’s okay.                       I know I’m devilishly handsome.”

"Are you kidding? Have you even checked your phone?  I thought you were dead." 

"I didn't have service? At least, I don't think I did, I never really looked."

"Look, first off, you really can’t blame me, alright? I tried to talk her out of it, and you know how well that goes over.”

"............."

"I didn’t say— Oh, shut up.”

"See, you tell me it doesn't concern me and that makes me want to know even more."