Shelly thought the evening went well, all in all. Then the weekend passed, and the following week, then the weekend after that. Geno didn’t call her. Maybe he was afraid of bugs, she thought. Or maybe she’d said too much. She knew that men didn’t want to hear her life story on the first date — her complete medical history even less so.
“He seemed so nice,” she muttered to herself.
A few days later, when her boss asked her to “call the copier guys,” she thought, No, I don’t think I will. Then she telephoned Dr. Hister’s office to set up an appointment. There were centipedes crawling up her ankles.
She left Dr. Hister’s office thinking, There’s a man who understands me. He had checked her blood pressure, reassured her that it was normal for a change and that the new medications must be working. When she smiled and explained the centipedes to him, he again soothed her, this time suggesting that they might have been side effects of the new pills rather than a problem with her blood pressure. “No crickets this time?” he asked. “No moths? No hornets?”
“Not in a while,” she said.
“Good, good. You’re on the road to recovery. Just keep taking the meds. Remember to breathe if you’re stressed. I think we’re getting your situation under control.”
Shelly couldn’t believe it. The thought of feeling normal never occurred to her, even though, for a couple weeks now, the dazzle of wings beneath her eyelids hadn’t returned, and no bites of mosquitos had left her swatting at her skin. “I’m cured?” she asked.
“Not cured,” he said, “but you’ve got the problem managed.”
“That’s wonderful news,” said Shelly. She felt as if he’d rubbed aloe over all her bites and stings.
“Let’s just keep an eye on it for a while.”