Do You Want To See My Room?

Do I want to see her room, she asks me?

Oh, I see. 

Like this is afternoon playgroup. 

Well, let me first explain that this is the afternoon playgroup run by your evil nanny with an uncontrollable desire to lace her tongue between the spaces in your sandals where your toes peek out.  Did I explain that?

Well, then.  By all means.  Lead the way.

She puts her arm around my neck in a stranglehold that means business, restricting my air passage in a way that only junkies and dogs on a leash can fully appreciate.

We slide down a pocket of air and drop through the open window of a penthouse loft with a queen-sized bed for a landing pad .  Even in the dark, I can feel the brightness emanating from her yellow walls.  Wedding veil curtains.  Two fresh-cut lilies in a vase. 

She can’t be this fresh.  This daisy-like. 

“Look around,” she tells me.  “I’ll pour you a drink.  Vitamin D alright, baby?”

She knows my brand. 

That doesn’t prove anything!

I move to the underwear drawer.  Before I open it, I try to guess what I will find.  Lemon-colored thongs, ribbons in shades of peach and mango, bikinis with wild cherries and roses. 

But I am wrong.

When I slide open the drawer, it is full of white, cotton, full-bottom undies.  And not one single bra in the place.