She had a small window she could fit me in if I hurried.
I briefly considered that the homeless guy’s shirt was all that stood between my bare butt and the world, but priorities were priorities. And perfect nails for the evening were my priority. I made a beeline for her emporium where she put me through triage and restored my dignity.
Once at home with beautiful new wicked nails, I took Mr. Homeless’ shirt from around my waist and dropped it in the washing machine. I stared at it a moment, then set the machine for large load, hot wash, hot rinse, heavy-duty action, and super ultra-clean minutes. I put in a full complement of soap and bleach, then added more. I wasn’t taking a chance that anything living in that shirt would survive. If the whole thing disintegrated, the residue would at least be clean and sanitized.
After feasting on three extra-strength Tylenol—and not once considering my liver—I wandered into the bedroom to examine the damage to my wardrobe. Turning my backside to the mirror, I saw the view I gave my homeless contact. As advertised, the slacks showed everything, the panties hid nothing, and both cheeks glowed with scratches and abrasions from the slide along the sidewalk. Although I wanted to scream at the destruction of my clothing and bruising of my body, I had to smile at the compliment he gave me. Maybe I did have a nice tush. After a last look, I dropped my clothes in a heap and headed for the shower. Time to get ready for my big evening. Judging from the way the day had gone, perhaps picking blood-red polish was an omen—a bad one. Made me wonder if I should warn David and postpone our date. That took a microsecond to consider. Not a chance.
_____
Dinner with David wasn’t all I hoped it would be. Oh, he was handsome, gracious, and funny, but the pounding in my head returned with a vengeance, and my irritated backside kept me squirming. I caught myself fingering the lump and tried to hide my actions by stroking my hair. I wondered if I’d done serious harm to myself this time, but sloughed it off behind a big smile—or so I thought. Apparently, my eyes refused to smile with me.
During dessert, mixed fruit for me and double chocolate cake for David, he said, “You’ve been squinting and fidgeting all evening. And I can see a vein jumping in your forehead. In most people, that means a headache—major pain. What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” There I went again with one of my I’m-an-idiot responses. I bit my lower lip while trying to find something intelligent to say.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” he said, a note of compassion in his voice. “Is this a condition you get often—migraine, sinus … guilty conscience?”
I jumped. “What makes you say guilty conscience? I have nothing to hide. It’s just a headache. Nothing special. Well, maybe a touch of sinus, but nothing more.” Oh, darn. Could I have spouted words that sounded more stupid?
“Uh-huh.” He stared at me. “Did you forget I’m a doctor? I spend every day looking at people’s faces expressing their pain.”
“You act like I’m trying to hide something from you. Is that what you think? Well, I’m not. Well … not really.” I felt my voice getting weaker. I was always a lousy liar. All my mother had to do was give me the look, and I crumbled.
David pulled on his earlobe, then gave me the eyebrows waggle. “Okay, I believe you.”
That did it. I couldn’t keep up the façade. I caved and gave him a sanitized version, playing down how close the Toyota came and leaving out my exercise in mooning Boca Raton. When I finished, he sighed. “I wondered why your hair looked … uh … less under control tonight, especially in the back.”
My hand shot to the offending spot. It felt like a bird’s nest. Bedroom hair I’d have called it except I hadn’t had my head on a pillow since that morning. I grinned what I knew was a weak attempt and shrugged. What could I say?
“Okay, let me check your head.” He
I briefly considered that the homeless guy’s shirt was all that stood between my bare butt and the world, but priorities were priorities. And perfect nails for the evening were my priority. I made a beeline for her emporium where she put me through triage and restored my dignity.
Once at home with beautiful new wicked nails, I took Mr. Homeless’ shirt from around my waist and dropped it in the washing machine. I stared at it a moment, then set the machine for large load, hot wash, hot rinse, heavy-duty action, and super ultra-clean minutes. I put in a full complement of soap and bleach, then added more. I wasn’t taking a chance that anything living in that shirt would survive. If the whole thing disintegrated, the residue would at least be clean and sanitized.
After feasting on three extra-strength Tylenol—and not once considering my liver—I wandered into the bedroom to examine the damage to my wardrobe. Turning my backside to the mirror, I saw the view I gave my homeless contact. As advertised, the slacks showed everything, the panties hid nothing, and both cheeks glowed with scratches and abrasions from the slide along the sidewalk. Although I wanted to scream at the destruction of my clothing and bruising of my body, I had to smile at the compliment he gave me. Maybe I did have a nice tush. After a last look, I dropped my clothes in a heap and headed for the shower. Time to get ready for my big evening. Judging from the way the day had gone, perhaps picking blood-red polish was an omen—a bad one. Made me wonder if I should warn David and postpone our date. That took a microsecond to consider. Not a chance.
_____
Dinner with David wasn’t all I hoped it would be. Oh, he was handsome, gracious, and funny, but the pounding in my head returned with a vengeance, and my irritated backside kept me squirming. I caught myself fingering the lump and tried to hide my actions by stroking my hair. I wondered if I’d done serious harm to myself this time, but sloughed it off behind a big smile—or so I thought. Apparently, my eyes refused to smile with me.
During dessert, mixed fruit for me and double chocolate cake for David, he said, “You’ve been squinting and fidgeting all evening. And I can see a vein jumping in your forehead. In most people, that means a headache—major pain. What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” There I went again with one of my I’m-an-idiot responses. I bit my lower lip while trying to find something intelligent to say.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” he said, a note of compassion in his voice. “Is this a condition you get often—migraine, sinus … guilty conscience?”
I jumped. “What makes you say guilty conscience? I have nothing to hide. It’s just a headache. Nothing special. Well, maybe a touch of sinus, but nothing more.” Oh, darn. Could I have spouted words that sounded more stupid?
“Uh-huh.” He stared at me. “Did you forget I’m a doctor? I spend every day looking at people’s faces expressing their pain.”
“You act like I’m trying to hide something from you. Is that what you think? Well, I’m not. Well … not really.” I felt my voice getting weaker. I was always a lousy liar. All my mother had to do was give me the look, and I crumbled.
David pulled on his earlobe, then gave me the eyebrows waggle. “Okay, I believe you.”
That did it. I couldn’t keep up the façade. I caved and gave him a sanitized version, playing down how close the Toyota came and leaving out my exercise in mooning Boca Raton. When I finished, he sighed. “I wondered why your hair looked … uh … less under control tonight, especially in the back.”
My hand shot to the offending spot. It felt like a bird’s nest. Bedroom hair I’d have called it except I hadn’t had my head on a pillow since that morning. I grinned what I knew was a weak attempt and shrugged. What could I say?
“Okay, let me check your head.” He
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