What my neighbor does or doesn’t do for a living isn’t something I care about right now, so I derail the conversation by asking an unrelated question. “How’s Sunny? How soon is she gonna be here? Did you make sure the waxer played nice?”
“She’s good. Excited and nervous. I didn’t ask about the trim job they gave her beaver. I dropped her off at Alex’s on my way here. She’s getting ready, and then she’s getting a ride over. You’ve got half an hour.” She bends down to pick up a fallen lemon.
I’m still holding the bags, and there’s something cold inside. It feels nice so I haven’t set them down yet. Violet’s face is at waist level when my towel unravels and falls to the floor.
“Oh my God!” She gets an eyeful of my man snake. He’s dangling out there for the world to see. Well, the world inside my apartment. “What the fuck, Buck?”
She rears up and throws the lemon. It hits me in the cheek, which is surprising. Maybe Alex has been teaching her how to play sports. He’s braver than I thought.
I move behind the island to hide my junk. “It’s your damn fault for handing over all that crap!”
“My fault? You knew I was coming up! Why wouldn’t you put on some clothes before you open the damn door?”
I set everything on the counter and retrieve my towel from the floor. “I was washing that shit off my arms. It didn’t work by the way. Look at this!” I hold out my raw, red forearms. Most of the hair is still there, with small irregular patches missing.
Vi stops freaking out about seeing my junk, frowns, and grabs my wrist.
“Ow! Don’t do that.” I slap her hand, and she lets go.
“That is not supposed to happen. Did you have an allergic reaction?”
“Maybe. I couldn’t even keep it on the whole time. I don’t know what the actual benefit of that crap is. It stinks, and it takes forever. It’s like I’m molting.”
“Like a yeti in the spring.” She’s grinning like the jerk she is.
“It’s not funny!”
“How long did you have it on for?”
“I made it to the forty-minute mark before it felt like it was eating off my skin.” The burning sensation is back, and it’s getting worse.
“You’re only supposed to keep it on for twenty minutes.”
“I thought it said fifty. That seemed like a damn long time.”
“It’s probably a chemical burn.” Instead of doing what she normally does, which is make me feel like an idiot, Vi turns the tap on and ushers me over to the sink. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”
Cold water eases the burn. She plugs the sink, gets an ice cube tray out of the fridge, and dumps it in. The cold water stings first, then numbs.
“What am I gonna do? Sunny’s gonna be here soon, and it looks like I have flesh-eating disease.”
“It’s not that bad.”
I look at my forearms and then at her.
“It could be a lot worse. You can wear long sleeves to cover it up.”
“Maybe.” I’m not sure that’ll work out so well. It’s hot as balls, and I have a feeling anything touching my arms is going to sting like a bitch. This is worse than the time I went to Cancun and forgot to wear sunscreen. I was the color of a lobster for the entire week.
Vi does a quick search on the Internet. I put some antibiotic ointment on the worst spots—where most of the hair is missing—but I don’t want to be too liberal with Sunny on her way here. I take one of the painkillers they gave me after Waters broke my nose and hunt down the numbing spray I pilfered the last time I got stitched up during a game. It stings like a motherpucker, but once it takes effect, it feels a lot better. By the time we’re done managing my chemical burn, it’s five minutes to five. Sunny’s punctual. I’m only wearing a pair of shorts.
Vi cleans up the kitchen and puts all the crap away in the bathroom while I throw on clean clothes, including the bikini briefs from the bag. I’m right; I can hardly get my parts to fit inside, but it’s too late to turn back now.