DISCLAIMER: Scarecrow and Mrs. King belong to Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Productions. No infringement intended.

AUTHOR: Rita (dittypiddler)

SUMMARY: A glimpse into Lee’s "rest and relaxation prescription."

NOTES: This dittylet is in response to Alley’s starter-sentence door challenge.

TIMEFRAME: Third season, following "The Eyes Have It."

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta.

RATING: PG

FEEDBACK: Always

TICK-TOCK

When one door closes, another one opens. Yeah, right. Nice thought. Wincing at the soreness of his muscles, Lee rose from the couch and threw the copy of "Wise Old Sayings" on the coffee table. He must really be bored out of his skull to read that kind of book. Where had it even come from? He’d never bought it. Maybe Amanda had left it. And where the hell was she? He looked at his watch for the third time in three minutes. She was late.

Nine minutes and seventeen seconds late.

Five days of forced inactivity would kill him yet. He stopped his agitated pacing long enough to pour a stiff drink. Then he spotted the bottle of muscle relaxants on the bar. Pills. He didn’t need them. He wasn’t sick. Just a little sore. He hated pills. He hated doctors. And he hated "relaxing."

He glared at the small, plastic bottle and repressed a childish urge to stick his tongue out at the pills. Amanda would lecture him if she found out he hadn’t taken them. But she wouldn’t know. How could she know? He sighed. She’d know. She always knew. He poured the Scotch back into the decanter, shook out two capsules from the medicine bottle, and headed for the kitchen. Better take the damn pills.

Okay, he’d taken the damn pills, so where was she? He glanced at the door and checked his watch again.

She was sixteen minutes and fourteen seconds late.

Locating the remote stuffed behind the sofa cushions, he dug it out and turned on the TV. Maybe there was a ballgame or something on. He flipped through the channels. No ballgame. Just news, reruns, and a cooking show, with a middle-aged lady peeling and deveining shrimp. He was almost tempted to watch it. Flicking through the channels again, he stopped at an old game show--"Beat the Clock." Appropriate. He sank onto the couch and leaned back, his arms cradling his head.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Damn show.

She was twenty-two minutes and eleven seconds late.

He clicked the TV off, tossed the remote on the coffee table, and stalked to the bar. His hand hovered over the Scotch decanter. One little drink wouldn’t hurt. But Amanda wouldn’t approve of drinking after he’d taken the damn pills. And she’d know. He slammed his fist on the bar. Just where the hell was she?

She was never this late without calling. Why hadn’t she called? He strode to the window, pushed the curtains aside, and looked out onto the street. No sign of her. Maybe one of the boys was sick, and she couldn’t come. He hoped not. Or perhaps her mother was going out. But she would’ve called. He scowled at the closed door. If only he could open that door, and she would be on the other side.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Damn clock.

She was twenty-six minutes and ten seconds late.

He picked up a magazine and thumbed through it, then threw it down and resumed pacing. Halting in front of the small telephone table, he picked up the phone but balked at dialing the familiar number. He returned the phone to its cradle. After all, she was just a few minutes late.

Twenty-nine minutes and forty-eight seconds late.

She’d think he was crazy. Well, he was getting there--fast.

Maybe she was on her way. His stomach clenched. Or maybe she’d had an accident. He grabbed the phone again and dialed the number, running his hand through his hair as he waited for her to answer.

Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.

Finally! "Amanda, where . . . "

Damn answering machine. He banged the phone down and glanced at his watch.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

She was thirty-three minutes and fifty-six seconds late.

He grabbed his car keys and bolted to the door.

Rat-A-Tat-Tat

No mistaking that familiar knock. Dizzying relief washed over him. He flung open the door, and Amanda bustled past him, one arm wrapped around a grocery bag and a "Movie Warehouse" sack in her hand.

"Hello, I’m sorry I’m late."

Thirty-four minutes and nineteen seconds late.

She dumped the bags on the bar and picked up the medicine bottle. "Good. You took your pills."

He closed the door with a wry smile. She always knew.

"I had to drop Mother and the boys off at the movies, and then I stopped to pick up some videos. After dinner, I thought we could watch one of those action films you like. Not that you need any more excitement, but, since you’re sick--"

"I’m not--"

"You are sick, which is why I’m indulging you." She smiled and wrinkled her nose at him. "Anyway, they have a ride home, and I told Mother I’d be late, so I don’t have to rush off. I have the whole evening to play ‘Bedside Bluebell.’"

As she headed toward the kitchen, Lee flopped onto the couch, his lips spreading into a wide grin. He had the whole evening with her.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

He wished he could stop the clock and make time stand still, if only for one night.

THE END.

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