Sarge had a Boys’ Night on Friday. I may have shut myself up in the office to write, with loud country music on. I may have even forgotten to eat my cheese-centric dinner, reserved for nights Sarge isn’t home.
I flipped between the very sparse notepad on Sarge’s Linux-run computer, last.fm, Facebook and Irene updates. At about midnight, I decided it might be a good idea to call my Mom, and left a long-winded message on her machine. So long, the machine cut me off. (Hey Ma, did you get my message?) I then went on Facebook and told the rest of my East Coast contingent to please be safe, wishing them only a little rain.
And then I heard sirens. And saw lights. Four sets of them. Outside my window. But no fire alarms on the inside. And I sniffed. I may have sniffed smoke. But possibly only because that’s what a person does when they realise there are fire engines outside their building.
It was about one in the morning. Would I become one of those women who phone their boyfriends during a night out and ask them to come home? Even though I had a pretty good excuse, what would I do if the fire engines left before he came home? False alarm babe, I was just checking to see how much you loved me?
Because of the presence of actual fire engines and possible scenes of minor peril, I texted him. Two seconds later, he was home. Seriously.
‘Did you get my text?’
‘Not yet. But why are there fire engines outside? Did you burn the popcorn again?’
‘No, but we must have telepathy going on. You DO love me! You really love me.’
‘Yes. So much that I’m going downstairs to see if we have to vacate the premises.’
We didn’t have to. I think the shop below us blew a fuse. Or something.
Sarge made tea and we stayed up until the firemen left. ‘I’d make popcorn,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to add to their workload.’
Sometime later, my delayed text beeped through on his phone.
The moral of this story is, sometimes you don’t have to call your boyfriend. A good one comes home on his own.