Man! Fire! The words bounce around in the vast darkness of my now brainless head. Smoke. Marshmallows. No--remember--Word'lish--

This is the second time my mind has failed me in a matter of hours. My limbs are frozen. Brain's deactivated. As far as I can tell, my organs have stopped functioning. I wouldn't be surprised to discover piss in my grannies when my systems reboot--if they reboot. I suspect I may have brain damage of some sort--caused by Dateless-in-Seattle-itis or something. Although, this round of cerebral malfunctioning has nothing to do with mortification and everything to do with stepping inside the realms of impossibility.

Bubbles waves an open hand in front of my face, then pokes me a couple times in the shoulder with her finger. Her voice sounds deep and drawn out like a record playing on the slowest speed. "W-H-A T-H-E H-E-L-L, G-I-R-R-R-R-L?"

Time stands still. Seconds drag on as though they're minutes. I watch in disbelief as the McCutie Assistant escorts The Man down the hallway in slow motion.

"Ch--ch--ch," I stutter, eyes side-glancing Bubbles like a helpless pooch. I point to the man walking towards us discretely with my finger then tap the graphics on my sweatshirt with an open hand.

Bubbles looks up at the middle-aged, average-bodied gentleman moving in our direction. Dressed in a pair of dark faded jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he cradles what appears to be an injured arm or wrist. "Weird. You have the same--"

I nod furiously as Bubbles gets warmer to the winning answer in the game of Charades my two remaining brain cells are playing. "Ch--ch--ch--Chili." 

"Right now?" Bubbles asks. "But you just had an egg salad sandwich."

I shake my head no and peer nervously at The Man moving closer with each slow-motion step. Again, patting my sweatshirt with my palm, I whisper, "Midgets. 'N Chili Bowl."

"What in the name of--." Bubbles places her hands on her hips and glares at me through squinted eyes. "Little people and beans?"

"Midget racing," I clarify--sort of--but not really.

Bubbles holds up her hand and waves it like a windshield wiper. "I don't even wanna know what you do in your spare time."

Her comment questioning my apparent fascination with races between little people--either for beans or powered by beans--doesn't register with me. My attention is elsewhere--on The Man's brown eyes to be exact. His brown beauties are locked on my hazel windows to insanity--insoulity--my hazel windows to in soul city? Whatever. The point is, he notices me. I can tell because his upper lip curls into a one-sided smirk. I assume it's because of our twinsie Chili Bowl hoodies. 

Paralization--again.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen feet.

Ten feet.

My mouth is millimeters from hanging open like a damn carpe. His hook is lodged deep inside my brain. Only my eyes move as I watch the man with a Chili Bowl sweatshirt disappear into an examination room with McCutie.

Bubbles slaps me on the back of the head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Now that The Man is no longer in view, basic human functions slowly return. "Midget racer," I whisper. "At Chili Bowl."

"Midgets--"

"They're racecars," I clarify. "Tony. Racecar driver."

"Tony--"

"Crush," I whisper. "My default."

Bubbles nods towards the examination room. "That's your Denzel Washington?"

I verify with a nod.

"That's your bungalow?" she questions further.

"I'd live there."

Slowly backing up, Bubbles peeks inside Tony's room.

After getting a glimpse of my trusty, imaginary boyfriend--she puts her hands on my shoulders and presses her forehead against mine. "I have a plan."

I stare at Bubbles with a--huh?

"Operation: Inhabit the Bungalow." Bubbles points down the hall where the imaginary Urgent Care Pool and Spa are located. Clearly it might be time to weed out some of the imaginary in my life. "The staff lounge is at the end of the hall on the right. We have a few candy striper uniforms in the closet. Put one on. Mister Racecar is going to require some sugar this evening."

Instinctually, my brain throws a million reasons into the excuse basket as to why I can't possibly do or pull off Bubbles' candy striper plan--the main reason being heart failure upon stepping into Tony's examination room. But before I organize my cowardly thoughts, Bubbles nudges me down the hall. "Law of Mirrors, baby girl. Show me the reflection of a warrior, not a weakling. Go!"

There's no way to argue with Bubbles without hypocrite'ing myself. If McSexy can face his inferiority issues in the face of an asshole like SilverFox, surely I can face my own inferiority issues in the face of Smoke--'er--Tony.

Obediently, I jog down the hall--my slipper boots slapping against the tiles. When traveling straight is no longer an option, I turn into the last room on the right and immediately freeze when I cross the threshold.

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

MUSIC: Eddie Money. Take Me Home Tonight. Will our lady find her bungalow tonight?

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com