"I'll monitor you for twenty-four hours and see how everything is looking.
#BIG MUSCLEY LADY MAKE MY PINGEY GO WHOOP PATCH#
Mom returns a few minutes later with a patch and an antiseptic swab. I chug the Synthamil then wipe the back of my hand across my mouth so I don't have a blue moustache. Especially when they enter the Procreation Pool and their hormones surge." She's off again, clicking through the hall to her home office. Sometimes people in their twenties grow a few more inches. I roll my eyes at her before I take a swig. "Maybe you're having one last growth spurt." Your metabolism might have shifted." She twists off the cap and hands me the liquid. I glare at her through my fingers as she clacks away and returns gently shaking a bottle of blue Synthamil with my name embossed in gold across the label. "Well, you're certainly grouchy," she mutters. I drank it all and I had water on schedule and I peed. "Jeez, Mom." I sit up and hold my head in my hands. "Your Synthamil has been precisely calibrated, and if you don't…" "Don't get smart." She drops my arm, which flops to the couch. "And water? Sixteen ounces of each this morning?" "You should work as a reenactor at the Relics. "Your historical medical references are hilarious," she deadpans. "Next you'll cut off my leg with a rusty saw and no anesthesia," I mutter, uncomfortable in her grip. Mom switches into full-on MD mode, picking up my arm with two fingers at my wrist, checking my pulse. I shake my head no, which makes me dizzy for a moment as if my noggin is a balloon tethered above my shoulders. "Are you achy?" She cocks her head, and her hair shifts like a black cultured Silkese curtain across her narrow shoulders. I push a finger into the spot, but all I can say is, "Empty." How it's a strange yawning feeling, like my insides grew a mouth and that mouth is opening. Above my navel but beneath that springy muscle, the diaphragm, that makes your lungs expand and contract. "Weird," I say because there is no one word I can think of. "Why are you on the couch in the middle of the day anyway?" They even used their hands for surgery." She makes a sick face at the thought of digging inside someone's body. "But since you don't, I have to do it the old-fashioned way." She holds up her hand and waves her fingers at me. "If you had your Gizmo with you, I could read your vitals from over there." She points across the room. Mom crosses her arms and sticks a hip out to the side.
"You're a doctor for god's sake," I grouse at her. "What are you doing?" I swat her away with the pillow. Mom's heels clack against the tile, then she slips a cool dry hand under the pillow and presses against my forehead. Not yellow or green but warm and earthy brown. I inhale deeply, but the biting lemony-lime scent is not the smell I want.
I wish I could dive back into my dream and find that thing I was searching for. I pull the heavy pillow that smells strongly of synthetic citrus cleanser over my head to block out the fracas. I roll away from the noise but can't get comfortable on the stiff couch because the backs of my legs stick to the wipeable surface. "Why were you in the dark?" Mom asks over the yapping of her personal cyber assistant Gretchen, who runs through today's junk mail on the main screen. My arms feel like spindly strings attached to my shoulders. When I sit up, my head feels too heavy, so I flop back on the living room couch. I poke myself in the stomach to make sure there's no hole. I try to clear my head and get my bearings.
#BIG MUSCLEY LADY MAKE MY PINGEY GO WHOOP ZIP#
Squinting into the light, I see Mom zip past where I'm sprawled across the couch clutching a pillow to my belly, moaning. "… comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love."
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