Sunday Morning Rendezvous

I know, I know. It's about time. . . .

For those of you who have patiently awaited my next post, I daresay you have not waited in vain.

Here we are, again, back with T. Camp. No, we decided she was Talyn C.

Talyn C. has just awakened (pleasantly and slowly, might I add) in her bed.
In her room.
In the basement of her parent's house.
Having been sick for three days, she slept in, and the now risen sun is shining its light through the two large windows into her room in an attempt to dissolve the "sicky" that is so diligently clogging up the air.
But the sunlight's attempts are in vain.
Acknowledging the mugginess of the contaminated air in her room, Talyn C. slides out of bed, pulls off her sheets (may as well clean the snot and cough out of them) and opens her windows to let the fresh air pour in. She scoops up her dirty sheets and heads upstairs to the laundry room.

About halfway up the stairs, her brain registers an alarming sound--similar to the cry of a dying bird.
THE ALARM. Crap! She opened the windows! (Well shoot, APX Alarm. Way to do your job!)

She scrambles up the stairs, zigzags around the banister and through the doorway into the mudroom, and frantically punches in the code on the touch screen of the alarm console. With her heart racing, though feeling a little relieved, Talyn C. presses OK when the pop-up asks if she would like to cancel the alert.

Then she waits.
Waits for someone to speak to her through the console.
Waits for someone to call the house.
Waits for Officer Friendly to show up on her doorstep.

But she waits in vain.

After eating breakfast and dilly-dallying for almost an hour, Talyn C. comes to terms with the idea that the alert really was canceled. That she caught it in time. Wheew! So she goes about her daily duties. She starts her sheets in the washer. She puts in her contacts and brushes her teeth. She hops in the shower. She hops out of the shower. She brushes her hair. She wraps her hair in her towel. And in the absence of humanity in the surrounding area, she strolls into her bedroom buck naked.

...and immediately spots Officer Friendly crouched down in her window well, hands cupped around his eyes, peeking at her through her bedroom window.

...and CUT!

Oh wait. But this is real life. So this is actually happening.
Joy.

Like any decent girl would do, Talyn C. flipped a 180 and took the two steps straight back into her bathroom mumbling an apology in the direction of the window as she mouths a dramatic "SERIOUSLY??!?" to herself in the mirror. Realizing her apology has been misplaced, considering that Officer Friendly is the PEEPING TOM in this situation, Talyn C. waits patiently for an apology in return. Instead she hears, "Could you please put some clothes on and meet me at the front door."

Sure thing, buddy!
On the doorstep, their conversation goes about like this:
T.C. - Is this about the alarm?
O.F. - Yes.
T.C. - Well I thought I canceled the alert. And no one called.
O.F. - The alert will always be sent to the local station. And they should have called.
T.C. - Good to know...but they didn't. And everything's fine.
O.F. - I guess you didn't hear the doorbell.
T.C. - Nope. Shower.
O.F. - I thought I heard a bang, so I came around back...
T.C. - I closed the sliding bathroom door.
O.F. - ...bad time to look through the window.
T.C. - (slight smile followed by a large exhaled breath and an exasperated look)
O.F. - Right, well...everything's okay?
T.C. - (continuation of said exasperated look followed by a nod)
O.F. - Alright. Well, you have a good day.
T.C. - (a shake of the head and a forced chuckle) You too, officer...you too.

And that was my Sunday morning rendezvous.