Word fic
Oh, dictionary, I love/hate you so!
Jeeves & Wooster fans: Although this is a Strachey story, this wee fic will remind you of a certain mustache and the hatred Jeeves expressed for same.
side whiskers
I about jumped a foot when Timmy strolled into our bedroom at the house on Crow Street.
“You’re gone until Saturday,” I said once I regained my composure.
“No, I’m not.”
Tim had a knack for stating the obvious.
Tim tossed his suitcase on the bed and began the laborious task of unpacking. His dirty clothes would be folded neatly and encased in a plastic bag, hermetically sealed with a bread wrapper thing. This bag would be unsealed, and its contents would be sorted into the appropriate laundry baskets according to whether they were shirts, undershirts, shorts or socks. His still-clean clothes would be draped across his personal ironing board to air before being hung on their appropriate hangers in his cedar-scented closet.
Thank God he had something to occupy his brain. Although it seemed like a good idea to let my sideburns grow to noticeable proportions while Tim was gone, now that he was home I thought better of it. Well, he hadn’t noticed them yet; maybe I could sneak into the bathroom and apply the razor before he turned his attention to something other than his unmentionables.
“Well, welcome home.”
He blew me an absent-minded kiss. “Thank you. What’s for dinner?”
I had planned to drink my dinner. “Steaks,” I said, improvising. “We’re going to Barney’s for steaks.”
“On a Wednesday night? What’s the occasion?”
I sidled toward the bathroom. “Your homecoming.”
“I’ve been in Manhattan, not the Outer Hebrides.”
I sidled some more. “I missed you. Isn’t that reason enough?”
Timmy tossed a stack of undershirts in the undershirt basket. “I missed you, too. What time, then?”
I was within three steps of the door. “Seven?”
“Sounds good.”
I had my hand on the doorknob when he spoke again.
“Don?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to shave while you’re in there.”
Jeeves & Wooster fans: Although this is a Strachey story, this wee fic will remind you of a certain mustache and the hatred Jeeves expressed for same.
side whiskers
I about jumped a foot when Timmy strolled into our bedroom at the house on Crow Street.
“You’re gone until Saturday,” I said once I regained my composure.
“No, I’m not.”
Tim had a knack for stating the obvious.
Tim tossed his suitcase on the bed and began the laborious task of unpacking. His dirty clothes would be folded neatly and encased in a plastic bag, hermetically sealed with a bread wrapper thing. This bag would be unsealed, and its contents would be sorted into the appropriate laundry baskets according to whether they were shirts, undershirts, shorts or socks. His still-clean clothes would be draped across his personal ironing board to air before being hung on their appropriate hangers in his cedar-scented closet.
Thank God he had something to occupy his brain. Although it seemed like a good idea to let my sideburns grow to noticeable proportions while Tim was gone, now that he was home I thought better of it. Well, he hadn’t noticed them yet; maybe I could sneak into the bathroom and apply the razor before he turned his attention to something other than his unmentionables.
“Well, welcome home.”
He blew me an absent-minded kiss. “Thank you. What’s for dinner?”
I had planned to drink my dinner. “Steaks,” I said, improvising. “We’re going to Barney’s for steaks.”
“On a Wednesday night? What’s the occasion?”
I sidled toward the bathroom. “Your homecoming.”
“I’ve been in Manhattan, not the Outer Hebrides.”
I sidled some more. “I missed you. Isn’t that reason enough?”
Timmy tossed a stack of undershirts in the undershirt basket. “I missed you, too. What time, then?”
I was within three steps of the door. “Seven?”
“Sounds good.”
I had my hand on the doorknob when he spoke again.
“Don?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to shave while you’re in there.”