Into You (2)
Created | Updated Oct 4, 2020
Into You (Part 2 )
When I think I can stand it, I make my way to the fold-up table set in place as a work surface, depositing my handfuls. Straining to reach across the table, I flip the latches on the tiny side window and slide it open. I do the same for the small window on the other wall. With airflow established, I make short work of the cleanup. The empty topsoil bag goes into the trash barrel at the end of the table nearer the doors; the hand spade gets hung on the pegboard retainer, along with the other small hand tools.
I pull the 'international orange' bottle of Go-Jo from a small shelf and squirt a bit into my left hand. The cleanser does the trick, sloughing away the ground-in dirt, but I know I'll still need to wash my hands thoroughly to get out the grime from under my fingernails. The hand towel looped through a swivel ring—attached to the standing cabinet to the left of the table—provides the wipe down, leaving my mitts reasonably clean.
There's a moment when I stare at the lawnmower, gauging whether or not to drag it out and take care of the 'shaggy' grass. I decide to be contrary. The mower hunkers disconsolately in the back corner of the shed as I close the double doors.
Wading through the ankle-deep Zoysia feels good. I make a beeline for the willow tree, to admire my finished project. Several strides before I reach the tree, I feel a squish beneath my right foot. 'Shit!' I hope that's not what it is. I don't have pets, and none of the neighbors' pets are allowed into my yard. Bird droppings? Raising my foot reveals a small black irregular-shaped blob of… something. I step sideways and slide my instep along the blades of grass, hopefully wiping it away. Feels like it, so I go to the house.
Through the screen door, into the kitchen, I wipe my feet on the doormat inside to knock off the last of the dirt from my walking about. A wine glass calls my name. It's hanging upside-down on wooden slide rails, hiding below the dish cabinet and above the countertop wine rack. 'Lynne,' it croons, 'it's time to unlax and rewind.' Stupid wine glass, quoting that 'rascally rabbit.' Of course, I'm a sucker for a half-glass of Chablis after completing a chore, so I cave in to the scoundrel. After measuring the pour to the midpoint of the chalice—plus a wee bit—the cork goes back into the bottle and it gets stowed with the other five unopened.
I take the drink with me, walk into the bedroom while sipping on it, bear left to the bathroom, and set it on the sink counter while I disrobe. Sleeveless top and capris drop onto the floor, then I take a sip of the wine. I wonder what Gerald would think if he knew I don't bother to put on a sports bra or panties when I work in the yard?
Standing in front of the full-length mirror attached to the door, I raise a toast to my little secret. After a long sip, I examine my reflected image. Over my shoulder, the sink mirror provides a 'rear view' that's actually a right-way-round picture, due to the double inversion between the two mirrors.
Yes, I'm sweaty. Yes, there are still streaks of grime on my arms and legs. And, yes, that buttocks back there is probably a prize Gerald strives to catch a glimpse of. But, no, I don't want to own up to the extra few pounds accumulating on my tummy. It's my age and my metabolism; I'm sure of it. A song by Sammy Hagar comes to mind: 'I Can't Drive 55.' Well, I'm there, so I guess I've got to deal with it. I take another swig of the Chablis, then flick on the overhead ventilator.
Balancing the wine glass in my left hand, I reach over the lip of the tub to turn on and adjust the water. Since I don't want to 'stew in my own juices,' I opt for a shower, rather than a bath. When the water temperature is optimal, I drain the remainders of the glass, then set it—empty—on the sink counter. I step into the tub / shower and pull the translucent vinyl curtain to the back, closing myself off from the rest of the world behind brightly colored tropical plants and a waterfall of warm wetness.
The warm water sluices through my nearly shoulder-length blonde hair, and I see tiny specks of debris race to the drain, circling it several times before disappearing into the unknown. Shampooing twice and conditioning once helps me feel clean and clear on my scalp. I pull the moisturizing soap down from the wire rack caddy, and lather myself up. Arms first, then stomach and breasts. Next to get cleaned are my legs and feet. I glance down through the deluge and note a tiny spot of black on my right instep that hasn't budged. I take the long-handled bristle brush back scrubber off its hook and coat it with soap. I do my shoulder blades and spine first, then hunch over to use it on the errant spot on my foot. After several attempts to dislodge it with the brush, I give up and rinse myself. I use a milder soap on my 'lady bits' and rinse a final time.
The water goes off, the curtain gets pulled back, and I snatch the towel from the long bar on the wall. Patting and rubbing with it absorbs most of the remaining damp of the shower. I drape the towel over my left knee, as I sit on the toilet lid and raise my right foot to straddle it. There's the little black blob, still clinging to my instep. It looks as if it's imbedded in my skin. A soft splinter? A blister?
I reach into the sink cabinet drawer and rummage for the magnifying glass and tweezers I keep stashed there for removing splinters. With a bit of magnification, it looks more like a blister than a splinter. I decide to lance it. With a fully opened safety pin from my stash of 'tools' in the drawer, I home in on it and prepare to pierce my skin.
When the point of the needle touches the blister, it shifts, as if trying to get out of the way. Before I can register that, it surges up onto the needle, detaches from my foot, and follows the metal shaft to my fingers. My reaction time is hampered from disbelief, so the black blob finds its way all the way to the webbed skin between my thumb and forefinger.
'…aaaaaaaAAAAH!' Startled, I grab the gooey inky stuff between the fingers of my left hand and smear it onto the counter. All of it's off my right hand, and none of it stuck to my fingers. It puddles on the counter and goes almost completely flat.
