Carpe DiEmily (A Romantic Comedy Adventure)

six

Emily handed her signed contract to Dr. Becker. He opened his black bag to reveal an array of medical equipment, including a syringe, tourniquet, and vials. After she’d gotten over her shock, along with some room-pacing, Emily finally allowed him to draw her blood.

“After I process your lab reports,” he said, taping a cotton ball to her forearm, “I will courier over your funds.”

She nodded, feeling a bit faint. This was all happening so fast.

Once he was gone, she sat at the green table for a while, trying to get her bearings. Her mind whirled with all that had happened. What had she done, and would she regret it? She had a year ahead of her now, stretching like an interminable blankness. How would she fill her time? What would she do with her hours?

She remembered Dr. Becker suggesting a bucket list of everything she’d ever wanted to do in life. She’d never had one before, but maybe now was a good time to make one. At the least, it would keep her busy.

Before she could over-analyze things, she seized a Sharpie permanent marker and quickly, without pause, wrote a list of twelve items on Lenny’s green table.

She stared at the black permanent handwriting, surprised at how uneasy she felt with her spontaneity and at defacing the table. But it felt good, too. Fuck Lenny and his lousy table. She took a deep breath and looked over the list of things she’d always wanted to do if she were a different person in another life. It read in no particular order:

□  Learn to country dance

□  Have a one-night stand

□  Visit New York

□  Run with the bulls in Pamplona

□  Sky dive or parasail

□  Get rip-roaring drunk

□  Skinny dip at night

□  Get a tattoo

□  Adopt a pet

□  Visit a tropical island

□  Meet Woody Allen

□  Make love under the stars in Paris

As she read down the list, her heart sunk. Who was she kidding? That list was for someone else, not her. She didn’t have the guts to do any of it, million dollars or not. Just the thought of attempting any of these things made her heart pound with anxiety. The bucket list sounded interesting and fun for someone else—someone who didn’t believe in common sense and safety. Someone who wasn’t screwed down and pent up, who was used to living dangerously.

Someone like Simone.

She laid her head against the table, a migraine threatening.

If Dr. Becker was good to his word, she’d have a million dollars in cash by this afternoon. Then what?

Emily picked up the Sharpie, ready to cross everything out and start over. What would a sensible bucket list look like? She chewed on her pen, thinking. Maybe she could do simple things that were still outlandish for her, such as go late-night grunion hunting at the beach, or grow her nails long and paint them a bright color, or attend one of those loud concerts that might damage her hearing. Maybe even go braless for once (wearing a thick sweater so no one would notice) instead of something outrageous like skinny-dipping. Jesus, skinny-dipping? Who was she kidding?

She started to cross off the first item on the list—“country dancing”—but something stopped her. This was her bucket list, no one else’s. She’d written it spontaneously. She hadn’t stopped to plan or mull it over. She’d just let go, and this is what came out. Shouldn’t she honor it? Wasn’t this carpe diem?