NURSE McSEXY (2016 Wattys Winner)

8:05 PM - SMOKE & FIRE

"Why in the hell would I thank him?" McSexy asks.

"Because his smokescreen saved you from a lot of trouble--saved you from someone who wasn't genuinely interested in your fire."

"For the love of--." McSexy exhales a sigh infused with apprehension. "Not another house fire."

"Another house is on fire," I admit.

"Please, don't."

"I want to hear about the--," Bubbles pipes in.

"You don't," McSexy interrupts with a side eye. "Trust me."

"But this one makes sense," I assure him. "I swear."

"Just say no," he whispers to Bubbles.

"But my mind wants to say yes," she mumbles back.

"Listen. You're a house and there's a fire burning inside you," I begin.

Bubbles stares, jaw partially dropped open. "He's whaaa? Yes--?"

"He's the house and his fireplace is like--who he really is."

McSexy glances towards Bubbles and whispers, "It's about to go south."

"No!" I scold. "I'm being serious! Listen!"

"I'm listening," he assures me. Glancing at his watch, he adds, "But I can only listen for about 20 more seconds. I'm supposed to be saving lives."

Bubbles puckers her lips. "I should pretend I work here, too. Make it fast, baby girl!"

With the added pressure of racing against the clock, I dial my talk speed into high gear like a true Northwesterner. "Originally PamPam wanted to be your home owner because she liked the warmth of your fire. But then the surgeon drifted in like smoke, and she got distracted by his fumes. Instead of loving the home with an amazing fireplace, her attention got redirected to the surgeon's smoke sinking deep into her throat--gagging her like she's never gagged before."

"Going--south," McSexy mutters.

Bubbles puts a hand over her chest. "Oh my, Lawd."

A hot wave spreads across my face. Damn it, Brain! Keep up with Mouth!

McSexy taps his watch, and I launch into the high-speed conclusion of my smoke and fire metaphor explaining why McSexy's unlikely soul mate, Doctor SilverFox, might deserve a nod of thanks. "Doc saved you with his cock-his, his-his cockamamie obsession with younger women. See? He's the smoke-a screen, a filter. But smoke can only distract soul high addictions, it can't detour someone from finding their way home. The heart is like a compass gravitating towards the heat of a person's inner fireplace. If PamPam wanted S'mores-S'more of your hotness-she could've followed the heat coming from your fireplace. All she had to do was get on her hands and knees and crawl under Doc's smoke to get her melted and creamy-the melted and creamy S'more'ness she craves from his-from, from-from your fireplace. Doc's harshswallows-fuck! Marshmallows! Marshmallows! PamPam's marshmallows of desire can only be goldened by the heat of fire, not smoke. Smoke can't golden one's marshmallows. But PamPam got confused. She blindly crawled towards the heat through the smokescreen, but the heat her privates-privates, pilots-PILOT! Her marshmallow pilot of passion didn't set her course to your house-your fireplace. Her desire was S'more of someone or something else. Someone else is her bungalow. Another bungalow has the fireplace she wants-to cook her marshmallows on-for S'mores."

An uncomfortable silence falls upon the room. Unfortunately, I don't like silence. I also don't like uncomfortable. So naturally, I keep talking, but in a slower and quieter tone. "Technically her marshmallows could be black and on fire instead of roasting in someone else's fireplace. Who am I to judge how a marshmallow should be cooked." With a brief pause, I add, "Totally smoked that metaphor right out of the ballpark, amirite?"