Just a Doll

I told her to paint her face.  Put on mascara, eye liner, and red lipstick.  Powder your nose.  And wear sexy undies.  I want to tape this, I said.  I built Doc another martini, and we sat in my tiny apartment parlor waiting.  Eventually she came out.  She tottered on her heels.  "I'm just a doll," she said.  "I'm just a doll."  I told her to shut up.  I had had enough of her act.  She had been a pain all evening.  We had gone out to dinner at a nice restaurant.  She had picked at her food.  We stopped at the Waikiki afterward and had a couple of fish-bowl size drinks.  Rum and God knows what else.  When we left, Doc and I were in high spirits.  She didn't say two words all the way home.

When we got back to my apartment, I took her into the bedroom, and we had a little talk.  "Be nice," I said.  Then she started up again, and I got mad.  I barked at her.  She looked at me with big eyes.

Afterward she was in a better mood.  She sat in Doc's lap and played with his tie.  Her brown eyes danced.  Doc sat there with a grin on his face.  I rewound the tape and hit the play button.  I told the girl she ought to get an Academy Award.


Jack Swenson
swenjack@comcast.net