Flying Low

"You're flying low."


She glanced below my waist.

Suddenly, I was in fifth grade, all red in the face, twisting so my back was toward her, fixing things and wondering why suck a simple little thing still fills me with dread. It matters not that it was 0430, and the total package was a bedraggled mess, I simply refuse to sleep "ready wrapped," and don't care if I have to get dressed and undressed six times after midnight. If a bunk is available, a bunk I shall occupy, and I ain't going in dressed.

Apparently, I ain't going to the ER completely dressed either!


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