I'm not an expert, but if the touch receptors in my face had to make a guess as to whether or not PamPam's boobs are real--they'd go with real. So soft, with a subtle scent of Versace Bright Crystal.

"Oh!!!" PamPam stumbles backwards, but manages to stay on her feet--her phone falling to the ground in the process.

Throwing my hands up to my face like that kid in Home Alone, I blurt out, "I'm soooo sorry! Oh my, God! I'm so sorry!" As I'm dropping to the floor to beat the Respiratory Specialist to the fallen iPhone, my devilish inner child praises, that hit was Seattle Seahawks worthy! With a giggle, the voice continues. Too bad the nickname Refrigerator is already taken. Perfect football name for you. You hit like a refrigerator. Store food like a refrigerator. Stare endlessly into refrigerators--

As my hand reaches for the iPhone, it vibrates. The screen lights up and the words 'My Love' pop into view. I hesitate for a moment and ponder, SilverFox or McSexy?

Whoever it is, 'My Love' seems to have his hooks in PamPam. We nearly collide a second time as she eagerly bends to pick up the phone while I'm standing to return it. Severe fumbling ensues as I pass the vibrating device off to the doctor, nearly causing another chance at a cracked screen. The Seahawks would not be impressed. Luckily, PamPam's superior coordination--in relation to mine--saves the phone from falling a second time. She swipes her finger across the screen and whips the cellular Pop-Tart to her ear. "Hello?"

Slowly creeping backwards, I push my butt against the bathroom door in hopes of silently disappearing from the situation. Unfortunately, trouble has a way of following me like flies chasing a dump truck full of crap barreling down the interstate.

"Damn it," PamPam whispers. She scans the hall in both directions--the phone clutched to her chest. She seems anxious and impatient. Her searching eyes stop on the restroom sign located on the door--just above my head. The look on her face seems to indicate--like me--the ladies restroom is her chosen destination for a secret hideaway. I immediately spin to face the door and push it open.

For a split-second, I hesitate to enter the restroom barefooted. What if I get some sort of poop infection in my feet? But with PamPam at my back eager to enter, I push my overdramatic images of foot am'poo'tation to the side and step across the threshold.

A woman washes her hands at the sink when we first enter, but leaves moments later.

"You're the respiratory patient," PamPam acknowledges. "From room 21."

With arms wrapped tightly across my body, I turn and reply, "That's me."

"How's your breathing? Any better?"

"Yes." I inhale deeply to demonstrate I'm capable of deep breaths. "The Claritin seems to be helping."

"Those hives still look troublesome," she points out.

"My skin feels really hot, but not itchy," I explain. "I can deal with hot."

"I'd take that over itchy any day. I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you." I slowly step backwards and point to a toilet stall.

PamPam waves me on. "Oh, yes. Good to see you're feeling better."

I nod, slip into a stall and lock myself securely inside. As I sit down on the toilet, I wonder if I'll need to figure out a way to make it sound as though I'm dropping off some ones and twos at the pool. Luckily, I'm spared from having to do sound effects when I hear PamPam dialing her phone.

There's a pause. Total silence.

PamPam: "Did you just call?"

My ears perk up as potential soap opera plots play out in my mind. Is this My Love she's speaking to?

PamPam: "I was worried I wouldn't hear from you. Things were awkward when you left."

Awkward, I think to myself. It was awkward when she left McSexy earlier. McSexy?

PamPam: "When are you coming back to Seattle?"

Nope, I rationalize, can't be McSexy. She knows he's in Seattle. Then again, so's SilverFox. He's in Seattle--eating a cookie. A coooooookie.

PamPam inhales swiftly through her nose, as though fighting back emotions. "I miss you," she reveals through a trembling voice. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Oh snap! Who's she talking to? I wonder. Does she have a kid? Or a masseuse with dreamy hands? Or--a sugar cookie--with pink frosting? I want a cooooookie. A soft sugar cookie. I can't stop thinking about soft, sugar cookies--with frosting--

"I was desperate," PamPam pleads. "I wasn't thinking straight. I never meant--I thought you might--I thought you might get jealous if I was with him. I thought if you were jealous enough, you'd want me back. There. I said it."

Hold the fucking cookie! Who's she desperate to get back?

"I know! It doesn't make sense. I don't think straight when it comes to you."

Who? Oh. My. God! WHO?

"You're the only one I want. You're the only one I've ever wanted."

You're the one that I want, I sing inside my head. Ooo. Ooo. Ooo. Honey. The one that I want. Ooo. Ooo. Ooo. The one I need. Oh, yes indeed!

There's a long pause. PamPam exhales what sounds like a defeated sigh. "Will you at least meet me for a drink? One? Let me apologize in person?"

Another extended moment of silence.

PamPam: "The one on Pike Street?"

Short pause.

"I'll be there as soon as my shift ends." With a whisper, she adds, "Thank you."

I hear PamPam's shoes moving closer. The door to a neighboring toilet stall opens, followed by the clicking sound of the lock.

This is your chance to escape another awkward conversation! I leap off the can and give it a flush for effect. As I exit the stall, I'm half tempted to make a run for the exit--but I don't. I wouldn't want PamPam to think 'Patient in Room 21' is both mildly crazy and a non-hand washer after toileting--so I approach the sinks instead.

I wave my hand near the automatic soap dispenser and get--nothing. Whatever. I shrug off the malfunctioning technology meant to make life easier and wave my hand under the faucet. PamPam won't know if I used soap or not.

Unfortunately, the automatic faucet doesn't turn on either, so I wave my hands under the spout like a karate master attempting to swat a spastic fly. Nothing. Are you kidding me? You were working for that other lady.

Time to reach in my bag of Ms-Fix-It tricks to get this sucker working again. I bang the faucet hard four times, then return my hands back to the basin to feel the glory of indoor plumbing.

Nothing.

Damn it!

I shuffle down the counter to the next sink and attempt the same ritual. Nothing. With fingers crossed, I shuffle down to the last sink for my final chance at audible evidence of cleanliness. Nothing. Fucking convenience!

PamPam's toilet flushes. My head snaps up, and I catch a glimpse of my anxious expression in the mirror. Mirror, I think to myself. Is this about PamPam--or a reflection of your own self-doubts?

[Pshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh]

That was my answer to the question--sound effects for running water. I'm standing at the sink making some sort of airy, hissing sound to make it appear to anyone listening that I have proper bathroom etiquette. Sound effects duty wasn't spared after all.

Before PamPam opens her stall door, I'm back in the hall.

I glance to the right and creep to the spot where I was formally known as the Crash Breast Dummy. Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm, I hum in silence. I'm so hilarious!

I peer around the corner to make sure SilverFox is nowhere in sight. Instead, I see Bubbles sitting at the nurses's station.

"Babs!" I call out.

Bubbles spins around in her swivel chair. When our eyes connect, she runs her hand across her throat in what I interpret as the international sign to shut the hell up.

What?

I focus in on Bubbles's hands in her lap. Her fingers look like two hand shadow ducks talking to each other--minus the shadows. Again, she nods to her right.

No! I gasp. He's talking to SilverFox!

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

What did McSexy say to SilverFox?

MUSIC: Crash Test Dummies. Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com