An epistaxis is a terribly inconvenient thing to have, confining one to a horizontal position until the bleeding has ceased. Being debilitated in such a manner makes me horribly restless and, frankly, brings on a feeling of uselessness I simply cannot shake.
And for such a small thing to induce ladies to get started cooing over you, worried about your well-being—I know they mean well, but such things can be (and are, for that matter) quite unnerving.
From here I have a good vantage point of both of them—in fact, you might say they're closing in on me, the handkerchief in Ginger's hand clamping down over my nose. Rather disturbing—I never have liked being touched, and now I have a pretty good idea about how much our fair movie star really learned on the set of Ben Casey about nursing.
But she means well. She always does, doesn't she?
I take the handkerchief in my own hand and more gently dab at the blood. The skin is tender and raw.
Glancing up at my companions, my mind draws a Venn diagram. Ginger: racy, worldly, tall, titian. Same: kind, beautiful women with hearts of gold. Mary Ann: modest, an ingénue, petite, brunette.
Polar opposites, you might say. But that middle column tells you everything you need to know.
How would you ever decide between them?
I guess it all depends—what do you want in a woman? Sophisticated or naïve? Mysterious or straightforward? City or country? We've got all the extremes here.
And I'm not sure I could ever pick one over the other.
I'm sure someday someone will be able to choose. But he'll be a stronger man than I.
And if even he can't, he'll have to go fight Mr. Howell for his wife.
Poor devil.
