Page 13 of Heartfelt Pain
Isolde narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?” I belatedly realize she’s honing in on my movements. I bend my knee, taking a long step. “Nothing.”
“Why are you moving like that?” she asks.
I stop. “I’m not.”
“You only bite your lip when you’re in pain.”
Her words make me stop. Since we’re alone in the alley and no one appears to be behind her in the doorway, I squat slightly. These tight pants do not allow for a lot of movement, but I pick at my crotch.
“Don’t make fun of me!” I preemptively tell her.
Her blue eyes slightly widen, a puzzled look on her face. “That’s not very ladylike.”
“You don’t say.” But I can’t finish when I whimper. Isolde grows more alarmed when I smash my lips together.
“I mean no disrespect but is something wrong with you down there?” Isolde asks.
A sigh scrapes against my soul, I’m so annoyed and tired. “I have an ingrown hair.”
“A what?”
“An ingrown hair,” I wallow, my chin dipping down. “And it’s in a very sensitive spot, okay. I mean like. . .” My hand circles around my crotch, indicating the area.
Isolde doesn’t get it. “Like how sensitive?”
“Sensitive!”
“Are we talking near the lips?” she asks, staring right at my crotch. “On the lips? Near the clit.”
I whimper at the last part.
Her eyes bug out. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
I bend down, hands on my knees. I applied an ingrown serum, but it’s not working fast enough. It’s been a bitch all morning.”
“I couldn’t make my wax appointment,” I explain. “So I shaved.”
She frowns. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“I was tired of the hair!”
“Why don’t you get laser hair removal?” Isolde asks. I have no idea her hair preference down there, but she sounds knowledgeable as she asks.
“I couldn’t make a fifteen minute waxing. When am I going to have time to go get laser hair removal?”
Especially since I know it requires multiple sessions.
“You make your own schedule,” she points out.
A siren pierces in the background. Running a handthrough my hair, I pray the shitty spring weather hasn’t destroyed the locks.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asks when I straighten.
It wouldn’t be so bad if the zipper of my pants didn’t rub. It’s a painful jolt at times, made worse by the knowledge that my own skin betrayed me.
I’m already running late for the meeting. I run a hand under my eyes, making sure the humidity hasn’t ruined my mascara. “I’ll be fine.”
