A commendable effort, young lady. The validation of your story from the mythical “Marco” is particularly astute.
HEIDI: Why, thank you. I like the way I’ve sent him an invisible present: I’m totally doing that again with everyone at Christmas.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I wish you luck. Might I inquire as to the significance of Tuesday afternoons?
HEIDI: Picnics under the cherry tree by the lake. I figure the “miss you like…” thing can be a running gag between us. You know, every time he posts he says something from our many happy hours together: I miss you like sharing apple pie, I miss you like holding hands in the sunset…
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I miss you like correct speech and punctuation?
HEIDI: Shut it, future boy. You’ve got a malfunctioning Twenty-First-Century Linguistic Etiquette Implant, which makes you talk like a loon. Ed doesn’t.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I’m not sure this young man is a good influence on you. You’re getting rather cheeky.
HEIDI: Who, me? (fluttery eyelashes)
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (smoldery eyebrow, jealous look)
HEIDI: Ahem. Yes. Do you think I should add some kisses at the end?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: As you’ll recall from the undelivered letter in episode 2.12, “The Charge D’Affaire Affair,” my preferred sign-off is “With love & affection.”
HEIDI: It’s a good job you’re pretty, isn’t it?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (sighs, continues smoldery eyebrow to fade-out)
And that’s it. He’s done. Gingerbread Ed Hartley, fresh from the oven, and ready to serve.
ORES.
UM.
I’m kind of desperate to show him off right away, but I have to be a professional about this. My many hours of TV detective training have taught me the importance of patience: of hanging back and waiting for the quarry to take the bait, in case the quarry turns out to be flying manmonkeys of death. Not that I’m exactly expecting that. And Mycroft and Jori on stakeout eating doughnuts definitely get to have more fun than I do sitting in History, trying to casually steer a conversation about Henry VIII round to hot boyfriendly types. But blurting out, “Please go and look at this website where you will find convincing evidence of how much Ed loves me,” could ruin the whole operation.
Result: I’m practically skipping when I hit the Little Leaf for my next shift and get to at least share Ed with someone.
I dutifully strap on my frilly apron, and admire today’s Wisdom: O UR BLUE POPPY SEED CAKE IS NOT ACTUALLY BLUE : JUST THE POPPY SEEDS IN IT . S ORRY TO DISAPPOINT . I sling the usual toast, jam, English Breakfast pot for two at the ancient couple seated at the window. I wait for Betsy to get us set up with our own pot. Then I whack the Dread Pirate onto the counter, piggyback onto the Big Bean’s wi-fi network from across the road, and introduce Betsy to gingerbread_ed in all his ULife glory.
I don’t even dare hold my cup while she’s reading. She’s going to love him. She’s going to think he’s heaven on a stick.
She makes the face she makes when people ask for their tea with lemon. It’s not a happy face.
“Oh, Heidi. It’s sweet and all, but don’t you think this is a little too much?”
PARD.
ON.
MOY?
“You don’t think he sounds yummy? In an angsty troubadour kind of way?”
Betsy sighs, and casts her eye over the screen again.
“I guess, if you like that intense thing. He’s like an independent movie Ken doll. One of those guys who wants to read you his poetry while wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt.”
“That’s bad?”
I could be read poetry. I’ve already been read poetry. By the lake, all summer, under the cherry tree. I’ve just decided. I’ve always pictured him in a sort of geek-chic flowery shirt before now, but Ed could totally rock a Che T-shirt. In a postpolitical post-ironic don’t-really-know-what-this-means kind of way.
“It’s bad if the poetry is bad, hon. Which, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Have you ever actually read Jack Kerouac?”
“No.
HEIDI: Why, thank you. I like the way I’ve sent him an invisible present: I’m totally doing that again with everyone at Christmas.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I wish you luck. Might I inquire as to the significance of Tuesday afternoons?
HEIDI: Picnics under the cherry tree by the lake. I figure the “miss you like…” thing can be a running gag between us. You know, every time he posts he says something from our many happy hours together: I miss you like sharing apple pie, I miss you like holding hands in the sunset…
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I miss you like correct speech and punctuation?
HEIDI: Shut it, future boy. You’ve got a malfunctioning Twenty-First-Century Linguistic Etiquette Implant, which makes you talk like a loon. Ed doesn’t.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I’m not sure this young man is a good influence on you. You’re getting rather cheeky.
HEIDI: Who, me? (fluttery eyelashes)
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (smoldery eyebrow, jealous look)
HEIDI: Ahem. Yes. Do you think I should add some kisses at the end?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: As you’ll recall from the undelivered letter in episode 2.12, “The Charge D’Affaire Affair,” my preferred sign-off is “With love & affection.”
HEIDI: It’s a good job you’re pretty, isn’t it?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (sighs, continues smoldery eyebrow to fade-out)
And that’s it. He’s done. Gingerbread Ed Hartley, fresh from the oven, and ready to serve.
ORES.
UM.
I’m kind of desperate to show him off right away, but I have to be a professional about this. My many hours of TV detective training have taught me the importance of patience: of hanging back and waiting for the quarry to take the bait, in case the quarry turns out to be flying manmonkeys of death. Not that I’m exactly expecting that. And Mycroft and Jori on stakeout eating doughnuts definitely get to have more fun than I do sitting in History, trying to casually steer a conversation about Henry VIII round to hot boyfriendly types. But blurting out, “Please go and look at this website where you will find convincing evidence of how much Ed loves me,” could ruin the whole operation.
Result: I’m practically skipping when I hit the Little Leaf for my next shift and get to at least share Ed with someone.
I dutifully strap on my frilly apron, and admire today’s Wisdom: O UR BLUE POPPY SEED CAKE IS NOT ACTUALLY BLUE : JUST THE POPPY SEEDS IN IT . S ORRY TO DISAPPOINT . I sling the usual toast, jam, English Breakfast pot for two at the ancient couple seated at the window. I wait for Betsy to get us set up with our own pot. Then I whack the Dread Pirate onto the counter, piggyback onto the Big Bean’s wi-fi network from across the road, and introduce Betsy to gingerbread_ed in all his ULife glory.
I don’t even dare hold my cup while she’s reading. She’s going to love him. She’s going to think he’s heaven on a stick.
She makes the face she makes when people ask for their tea with lemon. It’s not a happy face.
“Oh, Heidi. It’s sweet and all, but don’t you think this is a little too much?”
PARD.
ON.
MOY?
“You don’t think he sounds yummy? In an angsty troubadour kind of way?”
Betsy sighs, and casts her eye over the screen again.
“I guess, if you like that intense thing. He’s like an independent movie Ken doll. One of those guys who wants to read you his poetry while wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt.”
“That’s bad?”
I could be read poetry. I’ve already been read poetry. By the lake, all summer, under the cherry tree. I’ve just decided. I’ve always pictured him in a sort of geek-chic flowery shirt before now, but Ed could totally rock a Che T-shirt. In a postpolitical post-ironic don’t-really-know-what-this-means kind of way.
“It’s bad if the poetry is bad, hon. Which, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Have you ever actually read Jack Kerouac?”
“No.
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