Moira: I usually like meeting new people. But in this case I couldn’t wrap my fingers around how to tell him.  I’m still having a hard time talking about it.

Kathleen: You’re just having a hard time erasing the image of his golden talons penetrating the right clogged cavity of his cone-shaped beak — and the subsequent withdrawal from the aforementioned right clogged cavity leading up to the clasping of your hand.

Moira: I guess when it comes to men I know how to pick them.

Kathleen: I almost laughed when you told me that he is an Ear, Nose, and Throat Specialist. I had him pegged for an archeologist.

Moira: I suppose I should thank him for opening my eyes to a whole new world, albeit a utopia without handkerchiefs or tissues. Because of him I will never eat pie crust or think about the 49rs digging for gold quite the same way. Because of him I now carry around with me a deep, viscid, red-tinged secret. I can’t tell anyone I shook hands with him because no one will want to shake my hand.

Kathleen: I’m not trying to incite a smear campaign or sneeze on his parade, but he may want to think twice about running for public office. Campaigning involves rigorous hand-shaking. If he shakes everyone’s hands the way he shook yours, things could get messy before his political career ripens.

Moira: Maybe I misread his intentions and I’m the one who is being inconsiderate. It was nice knowing that he thought so much of me that he was willing to share his findings. He could have just wiped it on my blouse, but he didn’t. Instead he transferred it to my hand. Thank heavens there was a lady’s room nearby where I ran to and claimed his booger’s final resting place on the wall above the soap dispenser. Last I checked it is doing fine and resting peacefully. I wish I can say the same for me.

Kathleen: So, when are you going to see him again?

Moira: Friday night.

Illustration by Joyce Sajovie