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Last week, the boys (and the ladies at the beauty salon) heard something shocking! The story continues in this week's installation of Stan and Ollie. Enjoy! Then don't forget to see what the other Wednesday Briefers are up to. Their links follow my tale!
Stan and Ollie #12
The gasping that follows that startling declaration would probably measure 8 or 9 on the Richter scale of shocked exclamations, assuming there was such a thing.
Damn, I’m glad we decided to come here.
Fortuitous choice. I’m not saying that women gossip more than men. Hell no, that’s a definite stereotype, and I’ve listened to too many members of my own sex to know that. But I do have to say this. Women tend to have their fingers on the pulse of what is going on in situations where most men can be oblivious. I truly believe in women’s intuition.
“What do you mean, condition? Is Emmy sick? Is she dying?” one young woman exclaims.
A snort is heard from my stylist. “Mary Lou, are you kidding? You’re old enough to understand by now…”
“I mean that Bodean’s done put a bun in her oven,” Myrtle explains. “And you know what else that means?”
No one ventures an opinion. Me, I’m just a bystander, not about to put my two cents in, but I have an idea, even in this day and age. Her next words affirm my guess.
“Shotgun wedding. Probably before Little Missy gets a chance to show a little bump in that perfect figure. Her daddy’ll see to that.”
More head bobbling. I exchange a glance with Ollie; he arches his silken eyebrows at me. I have a question that I don’t wish to voice. I just hope someone thinks to ask it because I don’t feel comfortable injecting myself into their “private” conversation. While they seem to have forgotten we’re sitting in their midst, that would be a definite reminder, and probably an unwelcome one.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one with that same question.
“Now hold on here, Maybelle.” Attention swivels to the woman who first spilled the beans. She had a large black beehive and red lips that look troweled on. “What makes you think Emmy’s pregnant? Or that Bodean’s the daddy?”
“Well, Judy Parmenter told me Emmy was there just the other day. You know, for an appointment. With Doc Riddle.”
“Well, you know what one plus one equals, don’t you?”
As the conversation degenerates into a rather detailed gynecological discussion, all relating to the process of childbirth, I tune it out, for the sake of my own sanity. Instead, I turn my attention to Ollie, focusing on him. Mindi is just blow-drying his hair back to its natural blond shade. I have to admit she did a good job. I can feel my blood pressure skyrocket, just looking at him. Too bad we’ve no time to act on it. At least not now.
Mindi finishes and begins to put my lover back to rights, carefully removing the sheet draped over him with the little bits of hair on it. Setting it aside, she brushes him off carefully, before turning him for my inspection. “Like what you see?”
Indeed I do.
I show my pleasure with large tips for both Mindi and Myrtle, pay our bill with the receptionist and make our departure, unnoticed by the general population. Before the door closes on us, though, I can hear Mindi’s giggle, and her exclamation of “Aren’t they so cute?” I have to smile.
Now on to other business. And for that I need a certain someone, unfortunately. A necessary evil, as the likelihood of me getting an appointment with an ob/gyn is absolute zero.
“What next?” Ollie asks.
“Summon her majesty, please.” I can’t explain how they communicate. It goes beyond mere telepathy, something inherently more symbiotic. I just know that it works. She arrives in mere moments, and I explain what needs to be done. She seems less than enthusiastic, favoring me with her usual sarcastic glare.
“You want me to go where and let some man do what to me?”
Before I can respond with something completely inappropriate, Ollie steps in. “You don’t have to go that far, Xy, just make an appointment and chat up the receptionist. If you can, find a way to look into Emmy’s file and see the reason for her last visit. You’re good at that.”
Flattery will get him everywhere. Suck up.
“A last name would help.” She directs her remark to me; she’d never criticize Ollie.
“Look in the appointment book. Duh.”
She arches her back and hisses at me. Well, not literally, as she isn’t a cat at the moment. Not a pretty sight.
“Stan, please, that’s not helping.”
I know it, but it feels good.
He calms her down and sends her on her way, after ascertaining she’s had no luck in finding the dearly departed. Not yet.
“Think maybe she’s buried?” Ollie voices my own fear. Of course, should that prove to be the case, it’s not an insurmountable obstacle.
I consider the question, then turn my gaze to his, looking deep into his eyes. “Do you?”
Ollie makes no immediate reply—not that I expected one—falling silent. I watch with awestruck admiration as the internal process begins. I could not put a name on it if I tried. A million shades of color flash through his beautiful eyes, too fast and too subtle for my mere human brain to register even a small part of them. The overall effect is stunning. His lips fall open slightly as he virtually ceases to breathe for the moment, his skin taking on a more lustrous pearlescent cast. I’m mesmerized and, at the same time, very much turned on.
Thirty seconds pass. Or maybe only twenty. I sure as shit can’t say which. Then his own shade of blue returns, and I hear the quick breath he exhales. It takes all my self-control not to yank him back to the hotel.
“No,” he murmurs. “Not buried. But there is water.”
Water? Now that’s interesting. And something to go on.
Now to locate the nearest body of water.
to be continued
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