I don’t need a doctor!

My fall was not nearly as glamourous...

I live on the first floor of a small apartment block, just above the Indian restaurant and the Chinese joint. The fire escape stairs are closer to the driveway than the normal stairs, which exit through the Indian place. Cue our own special creepy stalker neighbour, who is also the waiter downstairs and checks my cleavage out every time we meet. We also often travel with my pet bunny, and nothing looks quite as dodgy as a lady with bangin’ cleavage walking through a restaurant with a sweet little bunny in a cage.

As a result, we generally use the fire escape stairs, which are painted green, are very steep and each step is very short. They are about 12 steps downs, short landing, turn to the right, twelve steps down onto a concrete landing where you are facing a wall parallel to the street in front of you.

On the day of our monthaversary and four days before Valentine’s Day, I was en route to my interview to try for a place on a TEFL course. I missed just one step. I had in my arms my lover’s degrees, my qualifications, a handbag and a cup of coffee. I fell forwards, my handbag dragging my left arm under my body. I landed on my right hand and the left side of my forehead.

Now that I’ve told you the technicalities, imagine the sexiness…a women in a spotless white shirt and pencil skirt (picture a dirty secretary in ballet pumps) disappearing down the stairs. You are sitting at the coffee shop opposite that dodge Chinese place. She stands up, and she is covered with blood. There is a steady stream down her face, onto her white shirt and in the channel between her breasts. Her right knee has a deep gash in it and her right shoe is filled with blood. She stands up, presses a dishcloth against her head and makes conversation with the Indian waiter who has brought it. Once her lover has brought the Beetle up from the parking lot, two men are needed to keep her up. She enters the car, ass-first-swing-your-legs-in like a lady, and turns to her lover…”I don’t need a doctor, I need a bandaid and a Compral.” Imagine the sexiness…

Luckily, he chose to ignore my wise words. I had severed the major facial nerve that runs from the crown of one’s head to one’s eyebrow. I had split (not severed, but split) the tendon of my right knee, and I had to have a plastic surgeon to ensure that I was neither disfigured nor disabled. The surgeon scraped green paint off my shin bone from about a hand’s length from my ankle, up to my knee. I was stuck on crutches and in a brace for three months, and just crutches for an extra month after that.

I was rocking my heels a month later, but I never used those stairs again. I may be a tough cookie, but I am not stupid.

There are blood splatters and stains on his degree and my qualifications. My handbag is broken. The scars? An almost invisible 7cm one along my hairline and a more visible 12cm one along the line between shin and knee. However, the knowledge of how incredible both my body and my lover are…

That shit is priceless.

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