I’m going to visit my friend Sarah tonight, a lovely woman with an office in two countries, a wardrobe I plan on borrowing from some day, and a real working brain. She is a delightful and driven person. Her synapses fire at the speed of – well, something really really fast – and best if all, she is on painkillers.
Mwa ha ha haaaaa. I’ll have to go through her closet tonight while she’s still compliant.
I was unaware of her need for prescription meds until just a day or two ago, when I logged in to Facebook and was promptly reminded that I was a bad friend.
Her update reflects a recent surgery. She has been laid up for almost a full week now, and my status as Good Person and Attentive Friend, at least in my own mind, is about to be revoked.
“Pearl!” she squeals over the phone. “You’re coming to see me tonight, aren’t you?” Her normally bubbly self has been supplanted by an even more effervescent version.
“Sarah, what are you on?”
She giggles. “I had surgery.”
You have to laugh. Kids these days.
“I saw that,” I said. “What surgery? What’s with the surgery?”
“Ooooooh,” she trails off. Her voice takes on a dreamy quality normally associated with massages and satisfying sex. “A nice man helped me with a heavy suitcase and he dropped it on my foot. Come here, Bets! Here, Bets!”
Sarah is calling to her dog, Betsy The Beagle.
She giggles again. “You wanna come over? You can make me a grilled cheese. That’s what I want. A grilled cheese.”
Do I want to come over? What, and make a grilled cheese sandwich for a funny, beautiful woman on prescription painkillers?!
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.