The thought is like a fire alarm. I clear my throat and pull myself together. “So the stove,” I say, brushing wisps of hair off my flushed face. “Is it an easy fix?”
My about-face seems to sober him too because he wipes the smile off his face and turns back to the range. “One way to tell for sure,” he says, squatting down again. “Could you turn off the lights?”
Turn off the lights? That’s a little weird.
“Um… why?”
He taps the top of the range with an index finger. “To check the spark from the igniter. If it’s blue, it should be good, but if it’s yellow or whitish, then you know the thing’s busted.”
“Oh.” Who knew? “Okay.” I reach forward, moving quickly so my German Shepherd Ass-scented scrubs don’t violate him, and I flip the switch over the sink. Then I cross to the wall and turn off the overheads.
He twists the knob, and the popping sound fills the room. The flash is small, but even from where I stand against the wall, I can tell it’s white, not blue.
“Huh,” I utter, impressed with his know-how. “But would it really be worth fixing if we decide to redo the kitchen?”
He shakes his head. “No, but if you decide not to renovate, fixing it will make your life easier.”
Just like that, I wonder why Mom never thought to call someone out to take care of it. Then again, it’s also pretty minor. An aggravation, yes, but I don’t lose any sleep over it.
There are plenty of other things to lose sleep over.
This thought, the way my skin still feels the electric tingle of laughter and charged attraction, and the sudden darkness of the room, make for too much stimuli. I need a break. I flip the lights back on.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go change before we look at the plans,” I say, already backing toward the living room. I gesture to my shirt, but my next words are meant for more than just that. “I don’t think I can handle this.”
A ghost of a smile quirks his mouth. “Sure. Take your time.” The slope of his shoulders and the looseness in his well-favored limbs tells me he means it, and I’m grateful. Both for the reprieve and for his patience.
With a nod, I turn, cross to the front of the house, and dash upstairs. In my bathroom, I carefully peel the disgusting top from my body, regretting there’s absolutely no time for a shower. Hell, there won’t even be time after he leaves. Tuesdays after my shift are for the weekly grocery run. And then it’ll be carpool, snack time, homework, and then time to fix dinner.
At the sink, I scrub my hands and wrists since this is the best I can do at the moment. I hear myself sigh and catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Really, it’s the burgundy lace bra that catches my eye, the way its deep color seems to tie together the pink fairness of my skin and the red of my hair. It’s pulled up in a ponytail this morning, but now slipping out in wisps around my face, my bangs no longer the neat curtain over my forehead but tousled from hours of wrangling animals and sweating through surgery.
With the color still high on my cheeks, I look like I’ve just left someone’s bed. The only evidence to the contrary is the knotted drawstring low on my belly. On a whim, I pluck at the bow with still wet fingers, and the scrub bottoms gape open. The fabric dips just enough so I can see my matching burgundy lace undies.
I may be relegated to the life of a nun for the next ten years, but that doesn’t mean I have to wear granny-panties.
I put on sexy underwear almost every day. And shopping for lingerie is a definite guilty pleasure. I like the way it looks. I like the way it feels. And I like the way I feel when I put it on in the morning and when I undress at night.
Sexy underwear is like a secret weapon. Really, it’s like a secret multi-purpose tool. A kind of morale-boosting Swiss Army knife. Good for building confidence, positive body image, and inspiring hope.
I’ve always liked lacy bras and racy panties, but these days, they mean something more to me. They are a little reminder of the truth. Smokin’ hot underwear says,You’re sexy even if there isn’t a man in your life.It says,Maybe the only balls you’ll touch for a decade will be the ones you snip off cats and dogs, but you’ve still got it.It says,This part of you that you can’t share with anyone? It hasn’t died.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I scold my reflection.
I shuck the scrub bottoms and leave them in a puddle on the floor of my bathroom. A moment later, I’m dressed in a pullover and jeans, ready for my trip to the store as soon as this guy leaves.
Before I reach the kitchen, I hear the rustle of papers. He’s talking as I walk in. “So last time this kitchen was updated, it was sometime in the eighties,” he says, studying the plans. “The vision your mother had fits the age and original decorative style a lot more naturally.”
At the mention of Mom, I feel a little quickening in my heart. Not like the bottomed-out faintness I had earlier, but excitement. He’s about to show me something from my mother. Something new.
Without warning, tears blur my vision. I clutch the frame of a dining chair, trying to hold back the feeling.
But then it hits me.
When is this ever going to happen again? When I’ll get to lay eyes on something she meant to show me? To have a new memory of her to add to my very finite collection?
Probably never. And if this is it, if this is the last time I get to share something new with my mom, I want to feel every minute of it.
So I let the tears fall.
