The Carmex Angel
“You dropped this.”
Turning around, PP beholds an Angel. Her hand extended with a jar of Carmex in her pale palm.
Where the hell did she come from? PP wonders, as the soft, accented (Australian? English? PP can never tell the difference. But who cares. It’s sexy) voice lilts through the empty row of lockers. She’s tall, this Carmex Angel, and pale (Okay, PP already said this, but it does make her more angelic right?) with long alabaster limbs, a firm white bottom, and rounded breasts dancing in PP’s line of vision.
Understandably speechless, PP, nevertheless manages to mutter an “Oh, thanks,” as she takes the proffered Carmex from the Angel’s soft palm.
Carmex Angel floats down the row of lockers; PP tries not to stare, but hell, why not? Shouldn’t she get some sort of fringe benefit from braving the crowds at the YMCA Monday afternoon pool time?
But what to say? Can’t she come up with something better than ‘Thanks’?
Giggling, PP calls after her, “Good thing you found that for me. I wouldn’t have gotten far without it.” Which is true. Carmex Addiction. But that’s another blog.
Carmex Angel glances back over her delicate shoulder. She really is a vision. PP is gonna put her in her novel. But for now, CA just smiles, politely. Not joining in PP’s little joke.
She doesn’t get it?
Of course not.
Angels don’t need Carmex. Their lips are always heavenly soft and supple. No need for artificial lubricants.
PP better stop now. Before she gets out the Carmex again, and starts strategically dropping it all over the Y, letting it roll to a stop at unsuspecting angels' heavenly feet, lining the rows of decidedly earthly lockers.