Bosnia Wants Me Dead

I am a guy.  I do not notice most things.  Like most guys, I usually am not thinking on much of anything either.  Like most guys I would never admit to anything else…

Friday night, Diedre wanted to go Christmas shopping and as I have a running car (for a change!), while hers continues to languish in her drive with a blown four wheel drive transaxle (they only made 83 of!), I took her to town.  Shopping!  Argh!  But, good to get out of the house, away from noisy kids and be with an adult for a change!

So, we were walking down a busy street looking in windows when suddenly she was at my side, slipping her arm in mine and squeezing it.  What the heck?  I could not see that by burying her nose in my armpit was going to be exactly a brilliant idea and I am sure she is not the current Canton armpit checker either.

“What are you doing?”

“Protecting you.”

“From what, terrorists?”

“No.”

“Muggers?”

“No.”

“Ah, police.”

“No.”

“Blonde ninja’s?”

“No.”  She laughed and wrinkled her nose.  “The girl who was eying you.”

“What girl?  Where?”  I was looking around.  Not often I get eyed by anything other than a Saint Bernard these days.

“Brown coat, badly dyed hair to match.  She looked hungry.”

She must have gone in a store as I could not see her. 

“I have a few extra francs.  We could have bought her something….”

“No, no, no!  Not that kind of hungry!”

“What then?”

Diedre sighed, “Yes, she was probably a terrorist.”

“Where from?”  It does matter where your terrorist is from after all.

“She looked Bosnian.”  And caught herself too late. 

(Bosnia was where my cousin was killed by paramilitary terrorists, as were those in his and the other medics’ care.  Although I had not even known about what happened to him yet, I was concerned enough about what was happening to the Christians that I and others implemented a plan to neutralize these groups and stop the killings.  There was a time when certain Bosnian elements had wanted a piece of me for this.  So, Bosnia is sort of a taboo subject around me.)

I pretended not to notice, just as I had pretended not to notice the brown haired looker only moments earlier when I had sucked in my gut.  But, if she was Bosnian…  I bit my lip and thought on this for a moment.

“Maybe she was a Romanian Gypsy and just wanted to lift my wallet?”

“I doubt it.”

Me too.  I carry my wallet in my front pants pocket so I am always aware of where it is and if anyone other than me is wanting it.

We walked in silence for a few more seconds.

“Oh, %$#$#@#@ !  My wallet is gone!”  She wailed…

Now where did she learn to talk like that!

Luckily, we stumbled across Timothy a little later, whom got to buy dinner for all of us.  As for Diedre’s wallet, she had dropped it in my car, we were to learn later…