drabble
Our winter coats are a few years old, as are our shoes. Hardly prosperous. The doctor is a recent graduate. He looks at the rash on my husband's hand, studies his calluses and our general air of tiredness.
"This is easy," he says confidently. "It's bipedal-monomanual dermititis." He beams and awaits our awe.
Hubby and I look at each other. "Two-foot," I say.
"One hand," he says.
"Irritated skin?" we say as we look at the doctor.
Doc blinks. "You two know Latin?"
Hubby snorts. "Yes."
"Duh," I say.
Doc excuses himself, Hubby pulls his Scientific American out of his coat pocket, I go back to Ancient Egypt in National Geographic.
You've had that doctor too?
Well, sort of, but I meant that more for the distracting muse. And it's worse because I was all hot last week...couldn't have missed. And that is so over now.
Connie, I really like that. I like the contrast of his expectations of you against who you are. The world's got a lot like that, huh, we don't often see the whole person.
sort of
That's what I figured when I saw the edit, but I initially thought it was a clever way to agree with both. They're not errors in posting, they're wry commentaries on life!
I like the contrast of his expectations of you against who you are.
The doctors at that clinic are a lot smarter now, though Hubby is still sometimes used as an advanced class in bedside manner. "This patient is highly educated, understands the treatment options, and will tell you if he disagrees with you. He generally has a reason worth listening to. Go, deal."
She can't take her eyes off his hair, and must force herself to pull her hand away once they stop kissing to take a breath. It's the softest she's ever touched, melting between her fingers, darkness needing to be held. He's thinking of growing it back, longer than the lock that falls just shy of his eyes, shoulder-length perhaps, or far down his back again.
She mumbles self-consciously about her own hair, still the same after seven years, and his fingers run through the near stubble, stiff half curls bleached blonder than the sun.
"Don't change," he whispers. "It's beautiful."
So, today, I had occasion to think about my own opposite.
She's evil and skanky...no word on the "kinda gay" but I wouldn't rule it out.
Sometimes I think there is an opposite inside of me. She thrusts her hand out for the nice things she knows are her due, and she has to fight the urge to perfume and admire herself(She doesn’t fight that hard.) She would eat cake for breakfast every day and when told about some suffering farmer in some distant clime thinks that’s his tough luck for having dirt under his nails. She’s never been in love but has plenty of good times. It’s easy when she looks this good.She knows she will die young and leave a good looking corpse, and she knows that is enough. She knows nothing straight is ever as good as stoned and she has left her underwear places she can’t remember.(And, no, she doesn’t care to have them back. Give the boy a thrill, whoever he was. No skin off her back.) In High school she was voted “Most Likely to Drink Champagne out Of The Cat Dish”It’s not as great as it sounds. No, it is...just kidding. She’s never worried about anything for longer than it took her basecoat to dry.
