I often think that Druck and I should have our own reality show. Except that no one would believe it. "Surely," the viewers would say, "this is all contrived. I mean, who in their right mind would even begin to believe that that woman had been hit by a bicyclist and also by a motor vehiclist during one of her pregnancies and that she and the child survived? With no brain damage? Oh, wait a minute..."
So the other evening, as Druck prepared for bed, he sat on the edge of that bed, flipping through bills. I sat beside him and glanced at the back of his neck. A neck that is absolutely gorgeous. His hairline is the sexiest I have ever seen and I love the back of that neck. Except for that mole. He's had that mole ever since I've known him. Which would be since 1979. And the mole has such a presence that it could have its own mailing address.
Anyway, I noticed that the mole, which was once brown, was now pink.
"I don't like that," I said.
"Like what?" Druck replied in an accusatory tone.
"That mole. It's pink. It used to be brown."
"So what."
"So, they say when there are changes like that, you should report it to the doctor."
Unflinching, and swiping his hand to his ear in telephone holding position, he bellowed:
"Hello? I'd like to report a mole. Yes, that's right - a mole. No, no, I'd rather not leave my name."
I hope I don't have to say, "I told you so" someday.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma
