"Not on purpose," I whisper. "It just happens. My mouth starts moving. Out comes nonsensical chat wit. Then--whoopsy daisy--bat shit crazy."

Bubbles pats her chest in what appears to be an effort to slow down her heartrate. "It's fine. Everything's fine." Turning towards me, she quietly snaps, "What did you do to the nun?"

My head drops between my shoulders. "Me and the Ex-Bot--"

"Who?"

"My ex-husband," I clarify. "It was right before we got married, in premarital counseling. A nun from my childhood church was our counselor. She asks how we met. I tell her online. She doesn't really know what that is. I explain online dating to her. She gets all excited. Then I tell her she should try it--totally forgetting she's a nun. When we leave. She hops on her computer and--."

"You helped--a woman of God--hook up with a man?" Bubbles asks, shaking her head.

I bite my bottom lip and look up at the nurse's assistant with guilty, puppy eyes. "She's happily married. That's good, right?"

Bubbles chuckles. "Girl! You're a walking tornado." Cracking the door open for a peek, she adds, "I just hope my favorite nurse isn't walking into a storm without an umbrella."

I sing, "When the sun shines, we shine together."

"What you babblin' about?"

Lowering my voice to a whisper, I sing a bit of the song's chorus. "You can stand under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh."

"Who sings that song?" Bubbles asks, sass outweighing a need to know.

"Rihanna."

"Let's keep it that way."

I look up at Bubbles through my eyelashes with an overly punctuated pout.

Still peeking through the crack in the door, she says, "Although--I like the idea of shining through this together. It gives me an idea." She motions with her hand for me to follow her.

"An idea?" I ask.

"Just in case--"

"In case of what?"

"In case my boy becomes a deer in headlights while confronting the Doc."

"'Cause if it's true about Doc's inferiority complex," Bubbles continues, "he may be looking for an excuse to get rid of my favorite nurse."

"Can he do that?"

Bubbles shrugs. "His mother-in-law's Chief of Surgery. Powerful father-in-law. No telling what he's capable of if provoked."

Sliding off the bed, I whisper, "So--you want me to wander the halls in granny panties?"

"Gown's a perfect undercover disguise for a hospital," Bubbles rationalizes.

"Undercover?"

"Just follow me."

Securing the open seems of my hospital gown with one hand, I follow Bubbles across the hall to a location behind the nurses' station. We walk towards an old fashion beam scale nestled in the corner. Bubbles motions to the antique, indicating she'd like me to step on it.

"Nope," I respond, head shaking.

"Get on," Bubbles demands, pointing at the spot where the feet go.

"No! Nothing says overweightness like a giant lead weight making that loud sound as it hops over multiple notches," I explain. "Why do you still have one of these, anyway? Hasn't everything gone digital?"

"It's a collectible. Décor. Just get on it!"

"Why?"

"If the conversation with Doc should take a turn for the worse, we'll be close enough to intercept."

"By asking for help on a decorative antique?"

"Just get your ass on it!"

"But--"

An examination room door opens and Doctor SilverFox emerges. As he walks behind the nurses' station, he glances in our direction. His expression is one of judgement and suspicion.

"Is the digital scale not working?" he asks.

"No. It's being glitchy," Bubbles replies. "Damn technology."

Insecurity and fear propels me to step on the beam scale without further argument. Doctor SilverFox whispers something under his breath and disappears into a room of some sort directly behind us.

Bubbles reaches up to move the scale's weights. I slap her hand and ask, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Checking your weight."

"We're undercover," I whisper. "Not doing a physical!"

"I'm trying to appear official," Bubbles mumbles.

"On an oversized knickknack?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

I scan my immediate surroundings. A sphygmomanometer on a nearby counter catches my eye. "Get that--blood pressure--blow up--water wing--thingy."

"Good idea," Bubbles agrees. "It's more mobile."

Bubbles secures the sphygmomanometer around my upper arm with Velcro and places her stethoscope under the cuff. In what I assume is an attempt to maintain a casual appearance, she asks, "So--you met your ex-husband online?"

"Yeah," I reply, a little shocked by the randomness of the question. "Online dating. Waste. Of. Time."

"Why do you say that?"

"Endless profiles full of exaggerated life details and photoshopped faces. It's an illusion."

"It can't be all bad. I know people who've found success on those things."

"It used to be fine years ago," I admit. "But things are different now."

"How so?"

"It's like--people don't even try at relationships anymore. If you're not perfection--on to the next fish--or fling. Whatever. Same thing."

"No one can be perfect."

"I wish people remembered that. But this is the filtered selfie age, so they forget."

"Virtual smoke and mirrors?" Bubbles concludes.

"Exactly."

Bubbles slowly squeezes the rubber, cocoon thingy to inflate the cuff. "Is that what happened with your Ex?"

"Maybe. Who knows?" I shrug. "Whatever."

Bubbles smiles and goes quiet, seeming to interpret my answer as my refusal to answer any more questions about the Ex-Bot.

The momentary silence sparks my silly tradition of slipping into a blood pressure meditation state where I control my breath, mental focus and body functions. It's a competitive habit I started years ago while training in martial arts. My goal is to become so talented at my imaginary blood pressure meditation skills, I transcend to a level of: walking dead. I got close once. I was so deep in my blood pressure meditation zone, a nurse couldn't find my vital signs and began questioning her abilities as a blood pressure checker. Unfortunately, this prompted her to keep pumping the squeezy thingy until the cuff on my arm had a tightness equal to a Kardashian in a waist trainer.

"Who would your ideal match be?" Bubbles asks.

"An actual person?"

"Naw. I mean, generally speaking," she clarifies.

Without a second thought, I reply, "Tony Stewart."

"Who?"

I never know how to explain Tony Stewart to people. From a looks perspective, the guy appears as though he thoroughly enjoys burgers, fries and cheap beer--two or three times a day. What they don't see in a 10 second first impression is his sarcastic wit and love for animals--even pigs! "He's a racecar driver."

Bubbles stops squeezing the sphygmomanometer and pulls a phone out of her pocket. "Gotta see Mister Speed Racer. Is he handsome?"

"No!" I place my fingers over her phone to prevent a Google search from happening. "I mean--I think he's handsome. But he's the guy you laugh with, not drool over."

"Funny ones." Bubbles grins. "Funny is the best kind of handsome. It's the handsome that never fades."

"If a man can make me laugh, he owns me for life." I let out a sigh. It feels good to be understood. Unfortunately, my feelings of belonging are immediately replaced with a flood of divorce thoughts--dropping my voice to a subdued tone. "That's why Tony's my default. He made me laugh when I had no reason to. He was something when I had no one."

Bubbles readjusts the stethoscope buds in her ears, then continues to inflate the blood pressure cuff. "Before my husband, I had a default for times like that. His name was Denzel Washington."

"Nice choice." I force a smile due to the fact the inflated cuff is restricting my arm like an angry snake.

"Mmm, hmm," Bubbles hums. "That beautiful man could--"

"Babs!" a woman interrupts while running down the hall. "You're needed in room 17! STAT!"

The excitement prompts Bubbles to unknowingly squeeze the rubber thingy a couple extra times, causing the cuff to bite down hard on my bicep. "Wait here!" she instructs.

"BUT!" I wince as I watch Bubbles disappear.

Hopping around in an open gown like a woman on fire, I claw at the sphygmomanometer on my arm. "Get off me," I shout between gritted teeth.

"Do you need help?" a male voice asks. 

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

A nurse having trouble finding my pulse while I'm in blood pressure meditation? True story. Maybe it's coincidental--but medical staff have been squeezing that sucker much harder since I started experimenting with martial arts relaxation skills in exam rooms!

MUSIC: Rihanna. Umbrella.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

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