blood: t-shirt and a beard

We talked about my shirt.

A couple of years ago, my sister gave me a Banana Republic t-shirt she didn't particularly like. It looks real good on me. I'm not really sure why exactly, whether it's the cut or the fabric, but it hugs my shoulders and chest and clings in such a way that I feel and look a little like a God.

The shirt seems to enhance or compliment the better parts of my body, makes my arms look a little bigger and the damned shirt didn't have holes in it, I'd wear it every day of my life.

I love that shirt.

She read my vitals: 127 over 78 with a pulse of 69. Not bad.

"I need to work on the cardio a bit more," I said.

"You work out?" It was almost flirting.

"Yeah, weights and an arc-trainer at South Charleston Rec." Where elderly gay men openly stare at my package, but I didn't mention that part. Instead, I posed and flexed a bicep.

She laughed.

"Do you have kids?"

I nodded. Yes, I have many kids. I have no idea why you are asking me this, but yes, I have many, many children. I am the father of nations.

She checked my blood.

"You're always in a good mood," she told me, which wasn't entirely true, but could be as far as she was concerned. "Some people don't even want me to touch them." She shook her head. "They get mad about drawing blood, start yelling."

I frowned.

"You kind of have to, right?" I tried to think of some way where no contact was possible. "And if they hate that part, with the lance thing, how are they going to feel about what goes on in back."

There was no other way to put this.

"This isn't for fun," I said. "I'm not doing it... none of us are here because we want to do this. This was not our first choice." She nodded. I was preaching to the choir. It wasn't her first choice either. "I guess you've got to wrap your head around what's being done. If you think of it as a job, it's not so bad --and better than fast food."

OK, that last thing was pure bullshit. Bleeding isn't better than a shift at McDonalds. It just sounds like it would be.

The tech smiled. My blood work checked out. She sent me on my way.

It might have been the beard, but I could have swore, by the way she looked at me, she thought I was cute.

It had to be the t-shirt.