"Apparently there’s nothing interesting for you to do at night besides study." - Emmett, Breaking Dawn, ch. 25, p.491

Anyway, it was a long and lonely morning yesterday for one certain Flat Boy, without me and the babies. But I certainly didn't expect to come home to this shocking sight:

"Edward, love," I gently explained. "You're BETTER than Harry Potter. A bajillion times better. I mean, yes, he's smart and he's a wizard, and he does have Ginny, but, darling E, YOU have millions of thirteen-year-old girls and their (mumblemumble pathetic, sad losermumble) mothers in thrall to you."

He fixed me with a stony glare. (Ha! See how I did that?)
"WHAT," he growled, "was that middle part?"

I blushed, knowing he was watching the blood flow from my neck up to my hairline. "Erm, nothing. Nothing at all!" I insisted. "Not a thing! Just, um, clearing my throat!" Then I straightened his cape and said brightly, "I know! Why don't I go get my eyeliner and I'll draw a scar on you?"

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Why do I feel compelled to have Flat E speak in a snotty French accent a la Inspector Clouseau? Because, no doubt, Edward speaks impeccable French, with a perfect Parisian accent.