Dishing Up Love

A few minutes later, I welcome the cold shot of air conditioning as I walk through the automatic doors. The sun may be on its way down, but the temperature on a gorgeous summer day like this doesn’t usually get the memo until well into the wee hours of the night. And even then, it’s still hot as hell with the humidity to match.

Glancing to my left, I see a crowd of people near the produce section, and it makes me wonder about the last time I ate an actual fresh piece of fruit or vegetable. Probably the last time I saw a crowd of people in the produce section and wandered over to see what was going on, which was a few months ago when the first shipment of cotton candy grapes came in. But I ignore the draw of the hoard and turn to the left, toward the freezer section. I’ll take my chances and hope they’ll have whatever healthy but yummy deliciousness still in stock tomorrow. When I come actual grocery shopping. Maybe.

My cell rings just as I turn onto the frozen pizza aisle, and I glance at my smart watch, expecting to see the name of one of my patients. Instead, it’s Emmy and I pull my phone out of my purse with a wide grin. “Well, good evening, Mrs. Savageman,” I say as a way of greeting.

“Good evening to you too. Um... Erin. Are you sober?” she asks, sounding surprised, and I can’t help but chuckle.

“Wow, talk about making me feel like an alcoholic, bee-otch.”

She scoffs, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Oh, shut your face. It’s Friday, your favorite night to go to our pub, drink three-dollar you-call-its, and then flirt with the hottest tourist in the place.”

“Dude. I’m totally an alcoholic ho,” I hiss, as if it’s the first time I’m realizing this.

“Um, excuse me. No talking about my best friend that way. As you’ve always slurred, ‘What’s the point of living in a party place like New Orleans if you’re not going to party?’” she asks, and I twist my lips in thought.

“Says the gal who’d only had sorta-sex with one guy before she met her now-husband.” But she’s right. For several years, I’d made it my mission to speak to as many people who came through town as I could while out, sampling all the different personalities as if they were foods at a Mardi Gras festival. Being a psychologist, I have a thirst for reading people from all over the place and all walks of life, which isn’t hard at all when there are so many tourists in The Big Easy. My favorite are the men—guys visiting for a bachelor party weekend spent on Bourbon Street, or the occasional world traveler here to check off an item on their bucket list.

I get to have an awesome get-to-know-you conversation, the excitement of learning a bit about a complete stranger, and no matter how the night ends, they go back to where they came from, and I’m left with a new personality to mull over after secretly shrinking them. But never locals. It’s just better this way, no chance of getting attached.

“So... why don’t I hear crazy commotion from the bar in the background?” Emmy prompts.

“Ah, no big deal. I just had a late patient today who bored me to tears, like to the point I just wanted to go home. But then I realized I didn’t have anything to eat for dinner, so my ass is currently scoping frozen pizzas at Heath’s.”

There’s a pause, and then Emmy’s teasing tone changes to one more concerned. “You feeling all right? More tired than usual? If you need me to fly home and go with you to the doct—”

“Em, I’m fine. I swear. It was the dog lady who had the late appointment.” I share stories with my best friend, but I never tell her their names. She’s the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met, so I know the tales I share would never be repeated. “She had to postpone her usual morning appointment for one in the evening because she had a spa day with—”

“Let me guess. Her dog,” she cuts in, and I bite my lip to keep from giggling. I try my best to be nonjudgmental when it comes to my patients, but I’m only human.

“Ding, ding, ding! She asked me today if I had an available opening in my schedule to see her beloved Fifi, as in to shrink the fucking dog,” I grumble.

She laughs, making me purse my lips. “I mean, I could give you Cesar Millan’s number if she’s serious. Our network just picked up his show.”

“Oh, she’s serious, all right. But as much as I love that man’s gorgeous salt-and-pepper hair, there ain’t no way I will be whispering anyone’s freaking dog.” It puts me in a sour mood to think about it, and my best friend must hear it in my tone.