|
And then of course there were the nagging feelings. Surrounded by a normal setting the itching sensation on the inside of your skin. No matter the amount of scratching it just wouldn't go away. You knew something was wrong.
It wasn't the wrong of the unmatching socks though. In fact, only a woman would nag over socks of different coloration. And only then if you'd upset them in some mysterious way.
They had these laws. Ever since the amazone tribes were first established there was something in every woman's genes that made her act in some strange and unfathomable fashion. Only married men could hope to glimpse at the top layer of these rules and empirically draw conclusions. But never enough. There was always some other rule to reestablish the woman as the singlemost unpredictable species the world has ever known.
The one saving grace, the nagging would only start once they called themselves your girlfriend, wife or mother in law. The trick was to avoid those you had already met.
What was it that caused such concern about socks? The amazones never did wear socks, had probably never even seen socks as everyone wore sandals. There was another thing. Socks and sandals, how could anyone view that as an unholy alliance but a woman?
This was a different wrong. Cutting the blue wire instead of the red. Hitting the gas instead of the break. Barbie going to the ball arm in arm with Action Man. A wrong simply world-shattering that made you go uh-oh as realisation set in just a second too late.
He hoped it was the hangar door. Leaving your door open just before you enter cyrogenic sleep might cause such a nagging sensation. That at least was more or less harmless.
The harmlessness proof that it was something else amiss.
If you've ever woken after a night of truely excessive drinking, desperately in need of analgesics and relieving yourself, you will know that is not the time for great philosophical debate. You would indeed have a hard time thinking your way out of the wet paper bag. Rest assured, a dry paper bag won't remain all that dry for long in such a state.
Fortunately, he had outside help. A kind lady's voice over the intercom identified the cause of the itch as she repeated herself. He had to smile. Was that a note of concern in a voice close to panic, all for him?
Perhaps she had waffles and black coffee waiting. He could use those, definately.
Timorris Rubio de la Veine checked his bag, swayed in a fashion some would view as nonchalant, walked off in search of a mild breakfast with a mystery lady to start his day most calmly.
Calmly, only if they had never met.
|