It's Not Funny
Disclaimer: The characters of "The Sentinel" belong to Pet Fly, etc and
are used here without permission. No copyright infringement is intended
Characters: Jim, Blair
Rating: Suitable for all ages
Feedback: To MMW
It’s Not Funny
It’s not funny.
Of course, that fact isn’t stopping my best friend, my partner, from laughing at me. At least I can give the cop taking statements – an officer Murray – some credit. He’s smiling, but at least not laughing out loud.
Of course, none of this is made better by the appearance of the ambulance. Looking up at the smiling faces, though, I think maybe getting away from them to the hospital is for the best. At least, that is until the paramedics come and I explain what happened. It looks like I’ll just be exchanging one set of smirking, laughing faces for another.
At least it’s a scenery change.
In very little time, I’m being whisked off to the emergency room where I will be treated and released. I know this because there’s no way I’m going to stay there long enough for the whole hospital to find out.
My ultimate goal is to go to the loft and forget this day ever happened. But the chances of that happening are about nil since I have to go into the station and fill out a report on the incident.
As I limp out of the treatment cubicle toward the reception desk where I will be signing myself out, I find myself face to face with the cause of my current distress. “Mrs. Abercrombie,” I greet politely.
“You poor dear,” she says, reaching her tiny hand upward and brushing it across the black eye she gave me. I can see her taking in the bandage that is covering the three stitches on my cheek before looking down at my bandaged ankle. “I’m so sorry about our misunderstanding and so is Bitsy.” A tiny white head pops out of her purse at the sound of her name. Bitsy is her Maltese. “I’d like to make it up to you, if I can. Perhaps you would like to come to dinner tonight?”
There are some things in this life you just have to smile about. Five foot tall seventy-five year old ladies with eight-inch tall white furry dogs inviting you to dinner is one of them. “I’d be delighted,” I reply. We finish up making arrangements and she leaves.
With her gone, I’m left face to face with my still smirking partner. I offer him a scowl and head toward the door, wanting nothing more than to get the paperwork over with and go home.
As we get in the truck, he starts laughing softly. I glare at him. It’s not funny.
Obviously, he can tell what I’m thinking. “Oh, come on,” he says. “It is too funny. A big, bad, ex-covert-ops soldier, the sentinel of the great city gets taken down by a tiny little woman and her itty bitty dog?”
I just glare harder and Blair finally settles down muttering something about me not having a sense of humor.
“So what are we going to do for dinner tonight?” he asks, deciding to change the topic. “There’s nothing at home.”
I can’t stop the smile that’s tugging at the corners of my mouth. “You can do whatever you like, Chief,” I tell him. “I’ll be having dinner with Mrs. Abercrombie.” Out of the corner of my eye I can see the surprise and jealousy on his face at the thought of my eating a good home cooked meal while he had takeout.
Maybe it was a little funny.
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