Other than my friends and Mr. Hardman, not a lot of people knocked on our door, so when I opened the door I was not unpleasantly surprised to see a girl about my own age standing there, looking at a sheet of paper in the light from the porch.
“Hi!” she said hesitantly, glancing from the paper to the house address. “I’m looking for Timothy?”
The girl was obviously from the depressingly large third group of door knockers; those who were trying to sell us something. Still, the appearance of any female piqued my interest so I was willing to politely hear out her sales pitch.
“Yeah, I’m Tim.” I said, as my eyes took in her lithe frame and very feminine curves beneath the stylish light jacket she was wearing. The front was open in the warm evening air, and I could see a pink stripped skirt with a matching polo shirt underneath. There was a Red Cross pin on the lapel. Her shapely legs were clad in white nylon, with ankle socks and running shoes.
She looked at the paper again, this time asking me to confirm my last name and the house address. She seemed a bit nervous, and she spoke with a slight accent that almost sounded British. My heart gave a leap as I realized she obviously wasn’t from around here, and it sprang into my mind that this was the way it happened to my friends. They’d all met girls from out of town and gotten laid. Was finally going to be my turn?
“I know this is going to sound odd,” she said, “But do you know a girl named Myra?”
“Myra?” I blinked, the goofy grin on my face fading a little.
“Yeah. Myra Mains.”
The name confused me for a moment or two. Wasn't that the joke name some girl had given Peter a couple of months back, along with a phone number that ended up being a local mortuary?
“Yeah,” The girl said before I could answer. “She said you wouldn’t know her, but asked if I could give you this.” She held up the paper she’d been reading from. It was a menu sheet, the kind a hospital has the patient fill out to give them the illusion they had some control over what the kitchen was going to send them.
“I volunteer at St. Mary’s,” The girl said, “Three days a week as a candy striper. This girl, they brought her in this afternoon. She’d been in a car accident and was in a pretty bad way. She could barely talk, yet was most insistent that you get this.”
Copyright 2000 - 2025 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.59 seconds at 4:17pm on Feb 23, 2025 via server WEBX2.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author