Hello, sweet readers. Thank you so very much for all the well-wishes for the real Zaedah (the dog, not the writer). I trust she'll be back to romping in the yard again soon. In the meantime, please accept the following one-shot as a token of my affection...
For my new buddy Kistynn
Straw. Camel. Break.
There had been, according to the genius's personal statistics, an unholy horde of 'last straws.' So many straws, in fact, that Peter had begun looking for a stable to keep them in. And with this morning's argument, he'd give his kingdom for a farm and the pitchfork that invariably comes with it. Said sharp tool would be employed in the gouging of his own eyes for the single benefit of sparing him the torture of that dress. By his count, this moment ranked as straw number four hundred and eighty one. And that dress ranked as virtually obscene.
This is how the camel's back shattered.
Walter hadn't helped, trying to dredge up a wolf whistle from inept lips and sounding like a toy kettle on the ocean floor. It capped a long line of straws breaking inside him one by painful one and coming with all the gentleness of a meat mallet…
...The straw marked four hundred and fifty six had come a week ago when Olivia had gotten punched during an interrogation. The new 'no civilians' rule had kept him behind the two way mirror and unable to immediately redecorate the man's face. Straw four hundred and fifty seven snapped minutes later because Olivia denied any injury while wearing a blackened expression that declared the border had been crossed and an armed patrol was being assembled.
They shoot knights in dented armor, apparently.
...Just yesterday, Peter had nearly decapitated Walter when the old man attempted to exit the car while stuck on a two mile, one way bridge at rush hour. A poodle had caught the scientist's fickle attention, making it quite a magical dog to have mastered levitation over raging waters. But Walter wasn't the only one growing delusional; looking down, Peter could swear the fish were trying to race away from his aura of calamity.
That had been straw number four hundred and seventy three.
...The next straw accompanied today's morning wake up call, sounding before sunrise with Olivia's request for one of his sordid contacts. The distaste that dripped from her tongue wedged the words in the space between the uptight woman and the half-dressed man. It was four am and he preferred his insults-by-association during business hours only.
He'd slammed the door in her face.
Throughout the day, he kept tabs on his dwindling straw supply and by lunchtime he'd taken refuge in Harvard's most uncomfortable stairwell to get away from Walter's ranting and Olivia's cold perfectionism. Moments ago, Astrid had materialized, her Bishop Homing Device encompassing both father and son and steered him back to the lab. On the way, Peter slaved over a three-course defense with a side of warning. But the ingredients soured in his mouth.
Because of the dress.
Sure, it was part of an FBI-sanctioned lie but with the proof of toned thighs replacing the rumor in his imagination, Peter didn't care if the meager fabric was worn only for the funeral that would result from his impending heart failure. His jaw would likely never recover from the stretch to the floor while Olivia moved toward him with enough hip swing to churn butter. This was, in point of fact, one hell of an apology.
Except that straw number 'who the flippin' F knows' featured Olivia granting Peter and his testosterone-fueled reaction no more notice than a gnat gives oncoming traffic. And like a windshield-destined insect, something inside him went splat; his ego, his pride and that fragile final straw. In retrospect, he would agree that his actions should have been tempered due to the audience and the sidearm she'd concealed God knows where. But he would also suggest not tempting a frustrated man.
Straw. Camel. Break.
And so Peter dragged the woman out of the lab, bringing the applause of his caveman ancestors. Olivia struggled just enough to provide a good show of resistance but, he noted, not enough to get away. Until they reached the relative privacy of an underlit corridor and the dispassionate agent pounced. Oh yes, that dress had achieved its God-ordained purpose. And whatever plan Peter had for this confrontation wasn't nearly as creative as Olivia's.
Later, after the Dress of Inevitability had graced a packed ballroom and then his hotel floor, Peter learned that Olivia's own stock of straws had run low a full day ahead of his. She'd tried to glue residuals back together, tried to purchase more, tried to do without. But dammit, they weren't camels. Her count may well have been higher than his, spanning the time before they'd even met, when she'd looked at his picture and saw not an ounce of cooperation on his one-dimensional face and this moment when his wicked hand was keeping her from restorative sleep.
Their next case involved a black hole in Idaho. On a farm. With pitchforks and straw. And while Peter mourned her suitcase full of sensible clothes, his disappointment was overcome by the midnight snack in the stable.