The thing I hate most about a blood test is not the needle nor is it the prick. It is not being able to eat in the morning. Anyone who knew my father well or knows my daughter or me, knows when we are hungry we morph into something between Mr. Hyde and the Hulk. My friend Barbara kids about keeping a piece of meat handy to throw to me, something like you would do to a charging lion. It is not unlike the crackers I usually had with me when my daughter was young to prevent her hungry horrors from turning into a rush for the nearest toilet.
However, this morning I was at the lab at little after seven. The nurse had a grey crew cut and cheekbones that we chipmunks can only dream about. Although I had brought a book, there was no waiting.
The owner of the lab does the blood work and I go there because he is so skilled. He was dressed in his T-shirt with the labname written where otherwise a logo would go. He's a bit on the chunky side that was more muscle than fat. He reminds me of someone who pound the mat of a boxing match and yells at his fighter to keep his fists up, but he is as gentle as the stuffed giraffe he keeps on his cabinet.
As soon as he hears my accent he switches to English. I tell him his accent is wonderful, and it is having the sexiness of Montand, Chevalier or Reno.
He blushes. “I sound like Arafat.”
“Mais vous n’êtes pas mort,” I tell him.
His laugh goes to his toes whether at my remark about his being alive or the joy of being alive, I don’t know. It seems if the giraffe is laughing too.
He is finished. I wasn’t aware that he had taken blood, but four vials are in the technician’s hand and I head home to breakfast.
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