El regalo de FedEx

By Jillian

**Note from this frustrated writer... sorry, but I didn't find a block of time to flesh out the beginning of my rehab story, but I think you'll have no trouble following along with my sketch.

hot day tired, need reward pool? NO! swim team will be there, must socialize, not today back yard? YES! have chaise and towel, need water, neighbor s gurgling water pond, sprinkler (breeze sends mist over me) big hat, unhook top perfect think about my rehab story mind wanders to El M, what shall he be today? MUST focus on rehab story hear voice, in Spanish then English

Startled, lift to my elbows, hat falls in face, remember my top! plop backdown

EGADS, WHO is in my backyard? and why did he speak to me in Spanish? And why didn t my little dog bark, but instead chose to greet this man as ifhe were a favorite family member who had been away for 10 days (or 10 minutes)?

From beneath the brim of my skewed hat, I cast a wary eye toward the man. Geez, why does he have to be gorgeous? And why hasn't he turned away, for heaven's sake?

"WHERE are you from????" I ask.

"Federal Express."

"No, I don t mean that. What country are you from?"

"Spain."

No wonder he hasn't turned away... he must be from the southern coast. Seeing a woman lying in the sun with 95% of her body exposed is nothing unusual for him. Quite the FedEx man, he is. Since I'm only 8" or so from the ground, my inspection starts with the shoes. Nice, not sneakers. He's wearing cuffless khaki pants which look incredibly fresh. (Evidence of his European customs...an American FedEx guy would be wearing his shorts on a day like this.) Uh-oh, I'm stalling out at the waist... it's so trim and those pants fit so well. The beautifully tucked-in shirt is one of those ubiquitous white polo things emblazoned with a small but discernible FedEx logo.

Nice shoulders. Wait... these arms are not in possession of a package. Hmmmm. And then I'm back to the face and the wavy dark hair. Oh...my...God. This face is AB's face. It's not even ruined by the completely dorky glasses that have flip-up sunglasses attached. The flip-ups are flipped up and yes, even through those glasses I can see that the eyes are AB's eyes. Convinced that I am asleep and have dreamed up an El M FedEx guy, I double check the hair. Okay, where's the ponytail? Not there.

I say, "What can I do for you?" Aaaaaargh, what a lousy choice of words.

Before he can respond I say as authoritatively as possible under the circumstances, "Why are you here?"

"Well, you were talking to yourself... you know, reprimanding yourself for your mind wandering always to El M and not focusing on your rehab story."

Okay, this is weird. Now what has become of my bikini top? Oh good, it's there, but where are the ends to be hooked and how can I manage this? Quite hesitantly I say, "I'm not comfortable with this at ALL, but do you think you could fasten my top?"

This gets a sympathetic laugh and a wonderful smile. "Of course. And don't worry, I'm here to help you, not hurt you." The ever so slight touch of his hands on my back is nothing short of thrilling. Oh, the touch...

And then...

And eventually I learned...

He needed to get away from all the overly nervous women in his life. His mother, his father's mistress, the friend of his father's mistress...it was never-ending, he said. Crazy things happened way too often.

**Another note from this frustrated writer...

Okay, mis amigas, I regret that I've not managed to close this story. I will. OR, I invite you, the best chica-story writers in the universe, to create the last couple of paragraphs for me. I would LOVE to know what your creative minds will do with this, even though I think I already know, basically (ahem). Sorry to submit an imcomplete story, but then this IS rehab, isn't it? We cut each other some slack, don't we? Love you all,

Jillian