"‘Cause you're sugar and you’d melt?”

‘Twas the close of the workday. I was dragging my carcass down the long hall leading to the elevator and to the exit of the hospital. A lady in scrubs was ahead of me. She stopped at the elevator, then turned to look back up the hallway to me and shouted, “Are you going down?”

I replied, “Yes, but don’t wait for me.”

But she did wait. She held the elevator door until my speeded-up shuffle got me there.

She leaned back against the side wall, head tilted back. That sort of exhausted look.

Elevators are those awkward confinement facilities where you try your damndest to not notice or to be noticed. That purposeful avoidance.

But I did take a quick little peak. Kind of a butch haircut. A fresh coat of bright red lipstick. Noticeable rouge.

In a manner of small talk, I did ask if she knew if it was still raining outside. Seemed a non-invasive way of acknowledging her presence, and kind of a round-about-way to let her know I appreciated her kindness in holding the elevator for me . . . without blurting out the obvious.

“I don’t care if it is. I just want to get home.” A look of exhausted resignation.

I kind of chuckled in accepting her answer. “But I don’t want to get wet!”

She then looked at me. It was a look of demurred devilment.

“Is that ‘cause you're sugar and you’d melt?”

I felt my face turn sugar-beet red and my tongue twisted into a contorted knot. I was trying to stammer out just about anything.

“That’s awful to make an old man blush!”

And she laughed and she laughed and she laughed.

The Refectory Manager