Note: Hi, this is just a quick two shot I've been thinking about, taking place about 3 months after the end of "Woes of the Eternally Bored." Please read and PLEASE review; I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Gwendolyn Sharp was never the sort to know when to throw in the towel.

"Bernard," she said, lying across our bed with her legs dangling, nibbling at a pencil as she worked a crossword puzzle, "What's Elmer's number?"

I paused, looking up from the bills I'd been attempting to pay.

"What?"

"Elmer's number," she repeated. "Y'know—little guy, cleans things, always calls you 'Mr. Bernard, sir'…"

"I am aware of who Elmer is, thank you," I replied, going back to the bills.

"Good. Then you can be a dear and give me his phone number."

I snorted.

"That's not happening."

She set down her puzzle, scooting closer to where I sat on the bed.

"Why not? C'mon, Bernard; this is important."

"Because," I told her, quickly adding a column of figures on the side of the paper, "substandard as his cleaning may be, he's done nothing to deserve you having his number. And anyway," as she opened her mouth to make an undoubtedly asinine retort, "I don't have it."

"What do you mean, you don't have it? Bernard, you mean to tell me he's cleaned your apartment for years and you never saw fit to ask his number?"

I set the bills aside with a sigh; there was no point in trying to be productive when Gwendolyn Sharp was on the prowl.

"Why, pray, would I want Elmer's number?"

"I don't know—just in case! What if there was an emergency and-?"

"Ah, yes: an emergency. I can see it now: Elmer, with his mop and bucket, sweeping in to save the day."

Sharp, much as she tried, couldn't quite stifle a laugh; chucking a pillow at me, she said:

"You're impossible. Look, the point is, I want to draw Elmer out; he seems lonely to me. And I'd like to call him and ask him over for dinner."

Had I been holding something, I undoubtedly would have dropped it; fortunately, I was empty-handed, so my possessions were spared.

"Sharp, I'm going to cling to my last shred of hope for your sanity and say that you're joking."

She made a face.

"Look, Bernard, just because you're an anti-social grouch doesn't mean we all are. Some people like to make friends."

"Sharp, you have an uncanny genius for the worst possible schemes."

But the bizarre minx only laughed and kissed the top of my head, sweeping up to change her sweater.

"Scoff all you want, Bernard. It'll happen. Remember: I once made friends with you. Everything else is just child's play."

-888888888-

An hour later, she was back, grinning all over her impossible face. Throwing herself onto the bed, she announced, clearly under the delusion that I'd asked:

"Elmer's coming to dinner tomorrow for six."

I made an effort to keep my face impassive; struggling with the habitual irritation at Sharp's nosiness was a grudging admiration. Stalker that she was, no one could deny that she wasn't good at it.

Not satisfied with my silence, my wife prompted:

"Well? What do you think? C'mon; I know you have something snarky to say."

She was, for once, correct.

"Well, I doubt Elmer had much choice in the matter."

She laughed.

"Oh, don't be a grouch. He's going to like it—and so are you. You're practically old friends."

"Sharp, he cleaned my floors once a week for twenty dollars an hour. I wouldn't run away with any cozy ideas about friendship."

But the chit only looked smug and kissed me quickly on the mouth.

"We'll see."

-888888888-

For the rest of the day Sharp was on one of her highs; she nearly danced around the kitchen as she made dinner, and more than once I had to remind her to be careful of the hot stove.

Often, dealing with Gwendolyn was like dealing with an exhuberant seven year old.

"Bernard," she said, finally putting the lasagna in the oven, "Bernard, c'mere for a moment."

I approached warily; who knew what harebrained schemes the Sharp chit was cooking up.

"Yes?"

But she only grinned and told me to stay still, pulling my head down to kiss a soft, cool line from my ear to my chin. I could suddenly only hear the thunder of my pulse, particularly when Gwendolyn slipped her hand into my slacks...

"Sharp, wh-what are you…?"

"Sh," she said, pulling back to grin at me. "I'm giving you a little present."

"Wh-what…?"

"You talk too much," murmured Gwendolyn, now working at my belt. It came off with surprising ease, and the minx soon moved to my zipper and then my boxers…"

"Sharp," I said, my voice hoarse, "I—I can't…it'd be easier on the—on the sofa…"

Sharp chuckled; the sound vibrated throughout my body.

"Don't worry," she murmured, getting on her knees. "You won't have to do a thing."

-888888888-

A few minutes later, I was leaning against the cabinets, very drowsy and extremely content; Sharp stood up on tiptoe to kiss what I'm sure must have been a goofy, ridiculous smile.

"You look pleased," she said, lightly wiping at her mouth. I nodded.

"Mmmm."

She laughed.

"Wow—I should have given you a blow job a long time ago. C'mon, Bernard; let's get you on the sofa. You look like you need a nap. I'll wake you up for dinner, alright?"

I nodded, allowing her to lead me to the couch.

"Gwen?" I murmured, lying on the sofa, half asleep already. She stopped.

"Yeah?"

I wrenched my eyes open, blinking at her.

"Thanks. It—it was nice."

Sharp smiled: one of her 1000 watt, sunshiny smiles. She bent to kiss me.

"No problem, Bernard. It was my pleasure."

-888888888-

"Bernard?"

Someone with soft, cool fingers was stroking my hair away from my forehead; I sighed, leaning into their hand.

"Mmmm…"

"Bernard," said the voice again, and it almost sounded like Sharp's, "Bernard, wake up. C'mon, dinner's ready."

It was Sharp. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was correct; there she was, standing over me with a little grin on her face as she stroked my hair. I straightened my glasses.

"Hello, Sharp."

"Hey, there," she said, as I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. "C'mon, get up; I've got dinner ready and all."

Accordingly, I followed her, watching as she set a plate of what looked like surprisingly palatable lasagna in front of me.

"Well, Sharp, you've outdone yourself. This actually looks rather eatable."

She stuck out her tongue; Sharp was nothing if not puerile.

"Well, Bernard, you know how it is; I give great blow jobs and I cook mediocre dinners. You can't have everything. These are the trade offs we make."

I opened my mouth to retort but then closed it; after all, there was no denying that the Sharp female had a decided aptitude for oral sex.

(I shifted in my seat at the thought.)

"Now," says Sharp, settling into the chair across from me with her own plate, "what do you think we should have for tomorrow? Or should we order something? I mean, cooking's not really my specialty…"

"One of the most sensible things you've ever said," I remarked, thinking privately that the lasagna was actually quite good. Sharp ignored me.

"But ordering would be so expensive…besides, I think he's bringing his wife and children…"

I dropped my fork.

"Sharp, how many people are there going to be at this dinner?"

She wrinkled her nose, considering it; I awaited her reply with the resignation of a man waiting for death.

"Oh…let's see, counting you and I, there should be seven people: you, me, Elmer, Mrs. Elmer, and their three girls."

Oh, for God's sake: seven people, indeed. This was beyond even Sharp's usual level of delusion.

"Sharp, we don't have seven chairs."

This, apparently, was a new consideration for her; pursing her lips, she leant back in her chair, a forkful of lasagna still halfway to her mouth.

"Hmmm…well, we'll have to get more, I guess."

"Or you could just sit in my lap," I said wryly. "That's a chair saved right there.

Gwendolyn smirked.

"I could, but I don't think you'd be able to contain yourself."

And then, cutting off my retort:

"Oh! I know—Bernard, it's so simple. We'll just pull the sofa up to the table!"

Then, seeing my face:

"You're right—you're right. But we could move the two chairs here to the living room—that with the sofa and the armchair makes seven seats. It'll be fun: a nice, informal get together."

I sighed, deciding it would be wisest to wash my hands of the whole, absurd affair. Gwendolyn, for reasons best known to her only, had taken it into her head to befriend poor Elmer; there was little in the way of man or beast that could save Elmer now.

What would be, would be.

AN: Next chapter soon to come!