She’s tapping my veins and looking at me suspiciously. “Why do you keep coming in here?”
“I’m having my progesterone tested and I have to have multiple draws to figure out what it’s doing during my cycle.”
“Well, PMS mostly.”
“No way. That’s a real thing? I thought that was just something men made up!”
“Um no, it’s real. Either that or I just have a bad personality. Ha ha.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say it. So, what does your husband say?”
Come on. He thinks it’s awesome, lady. He thinks it’s the flipping best.
I guess it wasn’t bad as the time before that, though, when she told me, in graphic detail, about the murder of her husband’s friend.
“… So they don’t even know how long he was lying there with his head beat in before they found him.” Slaps a bandaid on my arm, “You’re all set!”
“Um, thanks… sorry about… the murder.”
I don’t know. It bothers me when conversations don’t have a normal resolution.