Title: Summer's End - Prompt 126: Office Hours
Title: Summer's End
Character: Charlie, Amita
Prompt 126: Office Hours
Rating: K+
Word Count: 200
Summary: When does summer end?
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
Dedicated to Emma DeMarais, because we talked about this very subject...
"I miss summer," Charlie mumbled against his desk top.
"Summer doesn't officially end until the Autumnal Equinox," Amita argued. She tapped the calendar. "And that's not until September twenty-second."
Charlie rolled his head to one side and glared balefully at a stack of lurking mid-terms. Then he wrapped his arms around his head. "If it were summer, I'd be on a beach with a cool mai-tai in my hand. Not in here facing death by cacography."
Amita snorted. "Oh, be real."
"How am I not being real?" Charlie demanded.
"You spent most of summer the same way you always do, in your garage, with chalk in hand, working on a case for Don. Two, you hate rum!" She lifted a sheet of paper off his desk and shook it at him. "Lastly, if your own handwriting hasn't killed you, I doubt that your student's writing can."
Charlie made what appeared to be a supreme effort and straighted up. He looked her in the eye and asked, "Are you wearing white shoes?"
Startled, Amita looked down, even though she knew she was wearing navy shoes. "Um, no," she said.
Charlie let his head drop. "Proof. That. Summer's. Over. Deal." he grunted.
Character: Charlie, Amita
Prompt 126: Office Hours
Rating: K+
Word Count: 200
Summary: When does summer end?
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
Dedicated to Emma DeMarais, because we talked about this very subject...
"I miss summer," Charlie mumbled against his desk top.
"Summer doesn't officially end until the Autumnal Equinox," Amita argued. She tapped the calendar. "And that's not until September twenty-second."
Charlie rolled his head to one side and glared balefully at a stack of lurking mid-terms. Then he wrapped his arms around his head. "If it were summer, I'd be on a beach with a cool mai-tai in my hand. Not in here facing death by cacography."
Amita snorted. "Oh, be real."
"How am I not being real?" Charlie demanded.
"You spent most of summer the same way you always do, in your garage, with chalk in hand, working on a case for Don. Two, you hate rum!" She lifted a sheet of paper off his desk and shook it at him. "Lastly, if your own handwriting hasn't killed you, I doubt that your student's writing can."
Charlie made what appeared to be a supreme effort and straighted up. He looked her in the eye and asked, "Are you wearing white shoes?"
Startled, Amita looked down, even though she knew she was wearing navy shoes. "Um, no," she said.
Charlie let his head drop. "Proof. That. Summer's. Over. Deal." he grunted.