More Than a Kiss (5 page)

Banana Peel

"Hey,
sexy lady,” a smarmy voice said.

Amy
looked up from her desk and quickly closed her laptop.  Her heart sank when she
saw who was leaning in the doorway of her office.

Meet
Chad Dorring.  
Ladies’
man extraordinaire.  Suave, sexy and single.  Metro-sexual.  He was the
heartthrob of the hospital.  If he hadn’t chosen to be a doctor he would have
made an excellent soap opera actor.

Chad
stood in the doorway of Amy's office with a leer on his face.  Or maybe it was
a smile, not a leer, Amy thought.  Maybe his smile only resembled a leer. 
Either way, it was creepy.  Like how chimpanzees show you their teeth and you
think they're smiling and so cute, then suddenly they're attacking you.

Chad
raised one eyebrow in a suggestive manner and asked, "What're you doing
later?"

Amy
assumed the eyebrow raising was supposed to suggest that she was doing
him
later.  The thought of it made her want to gag.

"Are
you okay?" he asked. He walked uninvited into her office and plopped down
in a chair.  He stretched his long legs out in front of him.  He looked like a
cat toying with a mouse – like he could sit for hours in front of a cabinet
waiting for the mouse to innocently poke its head out so he could rip it off. 
"You look a little sick."

"Hello,
Chad, won't you come in?  Have a seat, make yourself right at home," she
said with ultimate sarcasm.  "And, no, I'm not sick.  You just surprised
me is all." She drummed her fingers on the desk, hoping her gesture
conveyed her impatience and he would excuse himself and walk away never to come
anywhere near her again.  Well, the never again part might require something
more extreme than tapping her fingers.

It
didn't happen.  Chad smiled instead.  He made sure to give her his toothiest
smile - the one with the high-wattage bling factor.  When he did that to the
nurses, Amy swore she could smell sex pheromones emanating from every pair of
panties in a two-block radius.

And
then, as if to compound matters, there was that cleft chin.  Amy abhorred that
cleft in Chad’s chin.  All the nurses drooled over that cleft, but Amy thought
it made his chin look like a tiny little butt on the end of his face.  She must
be the only woman in the world immune to his cleft and good looks.  She'd seen
all the nurses fan their faces and pat their hearts when he walked by.  Amy
wrinkled her nose like she smelled something stinky anytime he was near.  To
tell the truth, she was sick of Chad and tired of all good-looking male
doctors.  What she wouldn't give to work with a measly, shrimp-y, ugly doctor
with a wart on his chin instead of a cleft.

Chad
gestured to her closed laptop.  "Did I catch you looking at porn?"

"What? 
No," she said quickly.  Maybe too quickly.  Saying it quickly like that
made her look guilty.

Chad
laughed.  She hated his laugh.  It wasn't genuine.  It sounded like the canned
laughter in a sit-com.  She knew Chad had probably carefully cultivated the
tenor and rhythm of his laugh.  It was designed to charm a woman out of her
panties.  Well, it wasn't going to work on her.  Not again.

Amy
had been with Chad once before. 
Once
.  It was when she was new at the
hospital, and didn't know any better.  Chad had shown her lots of attention
those first two weeks.  He showered her with his cleft, his laugh, his toothsome
bling.  He asked her out for a drink and she tried to say no, but he made it
impossible.  And, maybe the truth was that she might have been a little bit
lonely.  Okay, a
lot
lonely.  She met him for one drink that turned into
four or five or who the hell's counting and next thing she knew she was too
drunk to drive and they were sharing a cab and sharing his bed.

The
sex was unremarkable – at least the parts she remembered.  Not that she was all
that well versed
in this particular human
diversion, but she didn't have an orgasm that was for sure.  Why did she keep
chasing that elusive orgasm?  She knew it wasn't something physically wrong
with her – she could give herself one.  Was it a mental deficiency on her
part?  Or perhaps emotional?  Maybe it was due to the poor performance of the
man.

When
Chad was
kaput
, he rolled off her. She jumped up and grabbed her clothes
on the floor.  She dashed for the bathroom, but it was dark, and she was still
half-drunk and she didn't see the used condom he had thrown on the floor until
it was too late and when she stepped on it, she slipped, fell and conked her
head on the hard wood floors.  While she was unconscious, Chad rushed her to
the emergency room and when she came to she was wearing only a T-shirt and her
undies.  Why the hell didn't he dress her in proper clothing first?

The
doctor, she didn't know him, thank God, asked her what happened and she told
him the first thing that came to mind:  She had slipped on a banana peel.  Oh,
she could kill herself for saying that.  Who slipped on a banana peel outside
of a Three Stooges movie?  It didn't take long for the rumor to circulate
around the hospital that she had hooked up with Chad and slipped on a “banana
peel.”

This
all happened months ago but the rumor still hadn't died completely.  Was it
still called a rumor if it was mostly true? She had become a running joke of
the hospital.  She kept finding banana peels in the trashcan in her office and
nurses giggled at her over the tables in the lunchroom while they exaggeratedly
peeled a banana.  Once in the cafeteria she had walked away from her table to
get a Sweet'N Low and when she came back there was a banana peel on her tray.

Then
Chad had suddenly appeared at her side.  He pinched the peel between his thumb
and forefinger, held it up like it was contaminated and said loudly, "Be
careful, doctor.  I've heard these can be very dangerous."  The whole
cafeteria busted a gut laughing.

And
the worst thing about the whole banana debacle?  Chad now thought it meant they
were dating.  He acted like he owned her or something.  Like they were an
item.  She even heard him refer to them as “Chamy” as if they were a power
couple like “Brangelina.”

That
was why she hated Dr. Butt-Chin Banana-Man Chad Dorring.

"I'm
shopping for a birthday present for my nephew," she lied.

"And
here I thought you weren't the maternal type," he said.

"Shows
how much you know me," she retorted.  She didn't know why she said that. 
She really wasn't all that maternal and she didn’t have a nephew.  But she
didn't want Chad to know that.

Chad
shrugged like it didn’t matter either way.  "I dropped by to give you a
heads up.  I'm having dinner with you tonight."

"Wrong,"
Amy said.  "I'm having dinner with my roommates tonight."  What Amy
couldn’t figure out about Chad was that the meaner she was to him, the more he
liked it.  Was he a masochist?  And did that make her a sadist?

"So
am I," he said.  "Jeremy invited me."

He
stood and stretched his arms over his head in a calculated move so she could
admire his sculpted abs as his scrub top rose up.  Gross.  The last thing she
wanted to see was his hairy belly.

She
opened her laptop and looked at that instead.  Chad placed both hands on the
edge of her desk and leaned his face in close to hers.  He said, "Just
thought I'd warn you so you can be sure to get all gussied up for me."  He
winked and strode out the door.

Gussied
up?  What the hell kind of word was that?  Women hadn't been getting gussied up
since the turn of the century.

Amy
looked back at her computer.  Staring at her from the screen was a smiling
picture of Jordan March.  It was her author profile page on Amazon.  Jordan had
written three children’s books and all of them had great reviews.  She not only
wrote the books, she illustrated them as well. She was beautiful
and
smart
and
talented and had a hairless belly.  It didn’t get any better
than that.  Maybe those drunken kisses with her college dorm mate were a precursor…
like little seismic shakes right before the big earthquake.

Amy
chose the boxed set of Jordan's books, clicked on the 'add to cart' button and
selected expedited service.  Maybe she could get Jordan to autograph them for
her.

Ch…Ch…Ch…Changes

Amy
pulled her gray Nissan Sentra into the driveway and parked behind Jeremy’s
enormous gas-guzzling Buick.  She turned off the car but didn't turn off the
radio.  She sat for a moment, listening to NPR.  She looked at the house.  She
looked at her car.  She looked at her clothes.  She looked at her fingernails
with the clear nail polish.  She looked in the rear view mirror at her lightly
applied make-up.

She
didn't recognize this woman, the one she had become.  When did she turn into
this person?  The Amy of old used to be daring –
she’d
gotten a tattoo after all.  Admittedly, she was a weekend rebel –
one didn’t get through med school without a effort,
but she went to Nirvana concerts, wore high heels, a leather bomber jacket and
groovy sunglasses.  When did she morph into this person who lived in the burbs,
drove a sensible car, had a sensible job, wore sensible clothes and sensible
make-up?  She even listened to NPR!  And now her exciting Friday night was
coming home to a dinner cooked by her best friend and after dinner she would
force herself to pretzel her body through a yoga video, then curl up in bed with
a book.

And
now she wasn’t even going to get to do that because her boyfriend she didn’t
like was coming over to see her all gussied up.  Was this how women ended up
getting married?  They settled or were bullied into the matrimonial state?
 
If
that was her future, Amy didn’t want anything to do with it.

Amy
opened the front door and was assaulted by smells coming from the kitchen.  She
didn't realize how hungry she was until her mouth began to water.  Then so did
her eyes.

Meet
Isabel Craig.
 
Amy’s other roommate.  Isabel is the product of an upper middle class family. 
She is a middle child and used to being ignored –
not
in a bad way, but in the way of middle children who don’t cause trouble.  Her
parents have no aspirations for her other than “being happy.”

But
happiness is elusive.  It is especially elusive when the person seeking it
isn’t particularly good at any one thing.  Isabel had, by her own count, held
over seventy-three jobs in the last ten years.  Right now, she was training to
be an Extreme Chef.

Extreme
chef-ing is a relatively new occupation.  It involves creating absolutely never
before seen or smelled recipes.  There is a lot of trial and error and guinea
pigs are necessary; not the cute furry rodent kind, but the human kind.  This
is the reason the independently wealthy Isabel has roommates when she could
afford her own apartment.

Amy
entered the kitchen.  Isabel looked up from the stove and smiled.  Isabel even
looked like an aspiring chef.  She was short, round, pleasant, and bubbly.  She
had dark hair cut in a no nonsense bob tucked behind her ears, glasses that
were always fogged up from steam off the stove, and cheeks always red from the
heat of the oven.  Amy even thought of Isabel's body in terms of food:  Her
breasts were plump dinner rolls, her butt was pork tenderloin and her stomach
was pudding.

Isabel
and Amy had been best friends for three years.  They had met when they showed
up at the same time in answer to an ad Jeremy had placed in the paper for a
roommate.  They had all three hit it off immediately – in a Three's Company
sort of way – and Jeremy had rented out a bedroom to them both.

Over
time, they had each staked out their own personal space in the large house. 
Isabel was in charge of the kitchen and dining room, Jeremy was in charge of
entertainment and the living room and Amy was in charge of…  Well, she was in
charge of staying out of their way.

Amy
put the paper bag down on the counter and Isabel's eyes brightened.  "Is
that what I think it is?"

"Pinto
Gris.  Two bottles."

"Two? 
And I think you mean
Pinot
Gris."

"They
had a two for one sale," Amy said.

"Start
pouring, girlfriend, start pouring."

Amy
pulled two wine glasses out of the cupboard.

Isabel
did a double take on the second glass.  "Since when do you drink wine?"

"I'm
going to change," Amy said.

"I
hope so," Isabel said.  "It's hard to eat dinner when a doctor is
sitting across the table from you in blood-splattered clothes."

"No."
Amy laughed as she poured.  "I'm not changing clothes.  I mean, I am.  But
I'm going to change myself.  I’ve decided that I’m boring and consistent and I
need to put a stop to it before it’s too late."

"Oh
yeah?" Isabel raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

Amy
handed over a glass of wine.  They toasted to nothing and sipped.

Isabel
went back to stirring the pot with a long-handled wooden spoon.  Amy downed her
entire glass, poured another and giggled.

"What’s
so funny?" Isabel asked.

"You
look like one of those witches.  You know in that Shakespeare play.  Bubble, bubble,
toil and trouble."

"That
was Shakespeare?" Isabel asked.  "I thought it was from a
cartoon."

Amy
laughed and poured herself more wine.  Isabel put the lid back on the pot and
turned to her.  "Okay," she said, "what's all this about wanting
to change?  Are you having an early mid-life crisis?"

Any
hoisted herself up onto the bar and swung her legs.  "I'm too plain.  I'm
plain and planned and… pained."  She was thinking of her heart.  Her heart
hurt.  It wanted someone to love.  It wanted to have a companion – not like an
extra heart in her chest, but a heart lying next to her, one she could hear
beating and know that it beat for her.  She didn’t think these thoughts in
words, of course, but in feelings.

"So,
you want to spice it up?"

"Exactly,"
Amy said.  She drank down half her glass of wine.

"What're
you thinking about changing into?"

"I
don't know yet," Amy said.  "Anything, I guess. It's got to be more
exciting than what I am now."

"Well,
you came to the right place.  I’m the queen of changing your life.  Look at all
the different people I’ve been.”

That
was true.  Just since Amy had known her, Isabel had been a stockbroker, a pizza
delivery girl, a locksmith apprentice, a member of the Geek Squad (even though
she didn’t know squat about computers), and had even gone to clown school.  She
had botched the balloon-animals class and dropped out.

Isabel
stirred, thinking hard.  “You could be a gypsy.”

"Gypsy? 
Where'd that come from?"

Isabel
shrugged.  "I just think you'd look good in flowing scarves and
bangles."

"I'm
not talking about dressing up for Halloween.  I'm talking about my life." 
She drank the rest of her wine and poured another.

"You
better go easy on that," Isabel said.  "I don't think making
important life decisions while you're drunk is a good idea."

"
Au
contraire
,
ma frère
," Amy said with a giggle.  "It might
give me the boost I need to take action."

Isabel
took the lid off the boiling pot, dipped up a spoon of the brownish pulp and
held it out to Amy to taste.  "Tell me what you think."

Amy
blew on the spoon and tasted.  It took everything she had not to spit it back
out.

Isabel
asked, "So?  More salt?  More cumin?"

"You
know what it needs?"

"What?"

Amy
dumped her glass of wine in the pot.  "More wine."

"You
ruined it!" Isabel said, madly stirring the pot like that was going to
somehow help.  "I can't believe you did that!  My God, it's all
ruined."  She whined and whimpered and cursed and stirred.

"Isabel?"
Amy whispered.

Isabel
looked at her.

"It
was really kind of bad."

"It
was?"

Amy
nodded.

"Real
bad?" Isabel asked.

Amy
nodded again.  "Foul, in fact."

Isabel
looked back at the pot.  She turned off the burner and said mournfully, "I
wanted to come up with a new recipe, something with zing and pep that would
make a good gravy for those tiny Italian noodles."

"You
will.  It just won't be that recipe," Amy soothed.

"I'm
a horrible cook," Isabel lamented.  A giant tear slid down her cheek.

Amy
pulled Isabel into her arms and squeezed her tight.  "You are not a bad
cook.  You are creative and inspired.  What's that adage about Babe Ruth?"

"Who's
Babe Ruth?  Is she on the cooking channel?"

Amy
laughed.  "Babe Ruth was a great baseball player.  Famous for hitting home
runs.  But what most people don't know is that he struck out more than he
hit."

"I
thought he was a candy bar."

Amy
held Isabel at arm's length.  "Just promise me you'll keep swinging.  That
you'll keep trying out recipes."

Isabel
nodded unconvincingly.

"You'll
hit those home runs, I promise."

"Maybe,"
Isabel said under her breath.

"Listen
to me," Amy said, giving her a little shake.  "Do you know how much I
admire you?"

"Me? 
Why?"

"Because
you have a dream.  You're living it. You know what you want.  And you keep
going for it.  I wish I had your enthusiasm."

"Thanks,"
Isabel said.  "Thanks for being my friend."

"Now
drink your wine.  I'll make dinner."  Amy threw open the fridge door,
rummaged inside and brought out a block of cheddar cheese.  She went to the
cabinets and took down a box of saltine crackers.  She grabbed the bottles of
wine and announced with full arms, "Madame, dinner is served."

Isabel
grabbed her wine glass and asked, "You're sure it couldn’t be saved?"

Amy
put on the sympathetic face she'd practiced in the mirror for the day she might
have to inform a family member that the patient had expired, and said in a
somber tone, "I’m sorry. We did all we could, but we could not resuscitate
the patient."

Isabel
grabbed her glass and swallowed a healthy drink of wine.  "Okay," she
said.  "Let's go out back and watch the sunset."

An
hour later the sunset was gone and so was most of the wine.  Amy and Isabel
were lounging on the far side of the yard in metal lawn chairs.  Amy nibbled on
a big block of cheese like a mouse and Isabel munched on saltines like a
squirrel.

"You
know what really pisses me off?" Isabel asked.

"Is
this one of those rhetorical questions?"

"Yes.”

"You
didn't have to answer that," Amy said, "It was rhetorical."

"Oh."

They
snacked in silence for a full minute.  Finally, Amy asked, "What pisses
you off?"

"Oh,
yeah," Isabel said, remembering what she was going to say.  "Hot
dogs."

"Hot
dogs like in wieners?"

"Yep. 
They're sold in packages of ten.  And buns are sold in packages of eight. 
That's not right.  It’s this giant food conspiracy and we just lay back and
take it.  We let them do it to us."

"I
wish you hadn't pointed that out," Amy said.  "Now I'm pissed
off."

"What's
going on out here?" a male voice asked.  Both women jerked their heads
toward the house and saw Chad looking out the back door.

"Hey!"
Isabel said cheerily because she was at the stage of drunkenness where
everybody is your friend and everything is potential fun.

"Ugh,"
Amy said disgustedly because she was at the tipping-point of drunkenness where
all it would take is one little thing to tip her from happy to belligerent. 
And that one little thing was striding across the lawn toward her.

Chad
approached carefully because he had spotted the wine bottles nestled in the
crotches of the women.  "Have we decided to forego
dinner in lieu of drinking?"

"Forego. 
Lieu," Amy mocked.  "Listen to how smart I am.  I can say forego and
lieu in the same sentence."

Isabel
laughed.  Cracker crumbs sprayed out her mouth and into her lap.

Chad
squinted at Amy.  "You need to eat something."

"I
am eating," Amy said, showing him the one-pound block of cheddar cheese
that had nibble marks around its entire circumference.

"Yeah,
we are eating," Isabel said through another mouthful of crackers.

Then,
in an unspoken display of drunken simpatico, Amy tossed the block of cheese and
Isabel tossed the box of saltines, each to the other.  They caught the other’s
toss and began to munch happily.

"You
are drunk," Chad said.

"You
are sober," Amy retorted.  She held the box of crackers up to him. 
"Cracker?"

He
waved away the box. "Where's Jeremy?" he asked.

Isabel
said, "He came home, mumbled something about women and PMS and locked
himself in his bedroom with a bucket of left-over Kentucky Fried chicken that
he scavenged from the back of the fridge."