Page 25 of It's Not PMS, It's You
Acting was not his forte, clearly. That was a ridiculous performance.
Thankfully, he snuck out the front door without another word or head bob.
Ruth just stared at me, tapping her foot on the tile floor.
I was pretty sure I saw steam coming off the top of her head.
I jammed my hands in my pockets. “Anyway . . . welcome back. We made a lot of progress today.”
Her face was flushed, her eyes beady, her jaw clenched so tight she looked like she’d just sucked on a lemon.
I swallowed hard. “I can go since I’m sure you’ve had a long day with the traveling.”
Ruth crossed her arms. “Wedgie girl? Really?” She articulated so well, like she was an ESL teacher and I was hearing the words for the first time.
My first impression was not one that I would ever be proud of.
“Don’t listen to him.” I pointed to Ruth’s brace. “How’s your wrist?”
She hesitated. “Not that I want to talk about my wrist or anything associated with what caused my wrist to get this way, but it’s not bad. Thank you for asking.”
A thank you was a good sign, but I decided my best course of action would be to change the subject. “Would you like me to show you what I did today before I leave? I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
She hesitated. “Please do.”
“Great.” I made my way down the hallway, wondering if it was a mistake to turn my back on her. Fortunately, I made it to her office alive and stopped, waving her through. “After you.”
“Actually, could you just give me two minutes to change before you show me?” Ruth asked. “These shoes are killing me.”
I was tempted to glance down and look but resisted. “Of course. Take your time.”
“Thank you.” Ruth disappeared down the hallway and returned a few minutes later, stepping inside the office. She had changed out of her business clothes and shoes and was now wearing a casual white summer dress and sandals.
“Much better.” Ruth looked around the office and then glanced down at the oscillating fan on the floor.
I pointed to it. “The fan is there to speed up the drying process of some touchup paint that I applied around the doorframe. It’s almost dry, and don’t worry, it’s non-toxic paint.” I smiled proudly and gestured to the french doors. “I hope you like them.”
Ruth stared at the doors, a blank look on her face.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a good read on her at all.
Say something. Anything. Tell me you love them.
If she didn’t like them, I would have made it right. I always made sure my clients were one hundred percent happy.
Finally, her shoulders and face relaxed. She took a few steps closer toward the doors, running her fingers along the smooth wood and nodding.
The oscillating fan rotated in her direction and—
Ruth screamed as the bottom of her dress flew up toward her head. She shoved the dress back down with both hands, holding it close to her body in the front and the back as she stepped away from the fan.
“Sorry about that.” I lunged forward to yank the fan cord out of the wall, dropping it to the floor. I stood there, not really sure what to say at this point. For fear of sticking my foot in my mouth, I did the safe thing and waited for her to say something.
She smoothed out her dress, obviously not having to worry that it was going to fly up again since the fan was no longer on.
Ruth turned to me slowly. “Did you see anything you weren’t supposed to see?”
I blinked, surprised by the question. There are certain things that women ask men that are problematic and have to be dealt with properly and delicately.
