More Than a Kiss Read Free Page B

here. 
I'm not good in social situations.  That's what my Pre-K teacher wrote on my
first report card.  That and 'if she doesn't stop licking the other students
she will be expelled.'"
    Amy's
mouth literally dropped open.  “Did you say licking?”
    "I
liked to pretend I was a puppy," Jordan explained.  “I got over it by
second grade when I finally realized licking friends was not socially
acceptable."
    Amy
laughed and looked away.  She found it hard to hold Jordan's gaze for any
longer than three seconds.  She didn't know why except that it was so…
intense.  She gathered her surgical implements on a tray and pulled out a pair
of latex gloves from the cardboard box.  "Are you wearing a wedding
ring?"  She snapped the gloves about five times too many.
    "Wedding
ring?" Jordan asked.
    "Any
rings?  Any kind of jewelry?"
    Jordan
smiled coyly.  "Are you trying to find out if I'm available?"
    Amy
blushed.  She could feel Jordan scrutinizing her. It was pleasant and
unpleasant at the same time.  Which was kind of like eating ice cream when you
had a sore throat.  It felt both good (ice cream) and bad (sore throat).
    Amy
squirmed in her chair and said, "I'm going to have to cut close and I
don't want the scissors to get caught on your ring."  She added, "If
you had one."
    "I
don't.  So, Doc, are you married?”
    Amy
slipped the scissors under the first layer of duct tape.  "No, I'm not
married."
    "Haven't
found the right person?"
    "Something
like that."  Amy noticed that she had said 'person' not 'man.'  If she
wasn't mistaken, Jordan was flirting with her.  But maybe she was wrong. She didn't
get flirted with often and never had a woman flirted with her, so she was no
expert.  The only flirting she'd ever witnessed between two women was in that
movie about the fried green tomatoes, and even that had to be pointed out to
her.  (By her mother of all people.)
    She
began to cut at the duct tape.  "This may pinch a little."
    Jordan
winced.
    Amy
asked, "What about you?  Does someone like you have a sweetheart?" 
She could kick herself.  Sweetheart?  What kind of word was that?  What was
she, raised in the 1950s?  What was next?  She was going to talk about sock
hops and poodle skirts?
    "What
do you mean, someone like me?" Jordan asked.  "Am I that un-presentable? 
I knew I should have brushed my hair before I came to the emergency room.  My
mother always used to tell me to wear clean underwear all the time in case I
got in an accident.  I never understood that line of logic.  I mean, if I was
in an accident I'd probably mess my pants so what would the underwear have
mattered in the first place?"
    Amy
had a sudden flash of what Jordan would look like in underwear.  What kind of
underwear were they?  Red and lacy?  White and cotton?  You could tell a lot
about a person by their underwear.  What was wrong with her brain today?  It
kept taking these weird erotic turns.  Must be a lack of caffeine. Or maybe too
much caffeine.
    Amy
said, "I just meant someone like you who is so… attractive.  I meant you
must have a lot of admirers."  Admirers?  Did she really just say that? 
My God, she was turning into her grandmother who always asked her about 'gentleman
callers.'"
    "Well,
thanks for the compliment.  But you see that's the problem.  I seem, through no
fault of my own I guarantee you, to bring out the worst in my
girlfriends."
    Girlfriends,
Amy thought.  So she was gay. Her blood pressure spiked and her heart picked up
in tempo. The only bothersome part was that she had used the word
'girlfriends', as in the plural sense.  Of course, Jordan was so beautiful she
had her pick of women.  She could have oodles of women on the line.  God, did
she really just think the word 'oodles’?
    Amy
finally managed to unwrap the hand.  "In what way do you bring out the
worst?"  She got up and put together a sterile bath for the hand.
    "Most
of them turn into a combination of Medusa and a green-eyed