Page 53 of Perfect Date
I was covered in literal crap.
Actual human feces.
With blue colored water. And God only know what chemicals.
And bacteria. Oh. My. God.
I shudder for the millionth time.
Humiliation colors my cheeks even a few days later.
I wonder if I can contact the FBI and ask if I can join witness protection? They’ll be like what did you witness ma’am, and I’ll say myself, being covered in shit. Or maybe I can make up a murder - I mean really, I think it would be justified.
It’s likely, though I highly doubt it, that I’m overreacting.
But then I think about sitting in the back of Justin’s truck, the air drying all the muck to me and my clothes sticking to my skin. And how could a gorgeous public area not have a working restroom anywhere easily accessible on the grounds where I could have tried to clean up even a little. Though I suppose a sink would have been greatly inadequate. I pause yet again and wish I could be living in a house with one of those nice faucets on the outside with an attached hose. Even then, I could have asked him to hose me off before I went inside. Or hosed off myself. But no. Not even that. I live in an apartment and had to trudge up steps and take all the smelliness with me. Inside. Into my apartment. I stripped as soon as possible and put everything in a garbage bag. So much for that cute outfit!
How many candles or how much time will it take for me to not smell that smell?
And me? How many showers before I do not smell or worry if I smell or to feel clean yet again. How we take feeling clean for granted.
I allow myself to think about Justin for a mere moment. He couldn’t have been kinder. I don’t know what caused him to check on me, to be there so quickly. Did I yell that loud? And he did help me get out. After, he didn’t laugh in my face, take a photo of me or throw up in my presence, and really, that’s some tremendous strength right there because the smell… I think I’ll smell it for days. It all keeps going back to the smell. When will every other thought not be about that? I think it will never, ever, leave my nostrils. It’s like burned in there.
Food will probably always taste horribly to me now.
At first, it’s a great bite, then ultimately it tastes like it’s laced with sewage.
There’s something wrong with me.
I know I’m being dramatic – again - but really, I’m entitled. This situation calls for such antics.
And am I fixating on the smell because I can’t bear even for a second to think about what I looked like? Yes, good thing I will never truly know what others, what Justin, saw.
When the knocking continues, I push the covers off my legs with a big sigh and head to the door.
Just as I’m approaching, I hear Mr. Roper scream at my knocker to shut up. I have no idea if that’s really the man’s name, but it’s what I’ve dubbed him after seeing his paisley shirts, open collars, and his wife’s big beaded necklaces.
“What the hell do you want Kimber-“
The words get choked in my throat when I get a look at the man standing in my doorway.
“Justin?”
“Good lord, woman, what took you so long?”
He pushes past me and comes into the apartment.
Closing the door I whirl around, complete confusion making me speechless.
Suddenly I realize all I’m wearing is a large oversized t-shirt because I was living in my bed never intending to leave.
Ever again.
It isn’t until he gives me a long look, his gaze lingering on my exposed legs that it dawns on me what I look like.
Then I quickly remember he’s seen me with dried crap all over my body and I decide I really don’t care about this situation. I mean, it’s a million steps up comparatively.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls or texts the last few days?”
