Page 4 of The Spinster & the Sock

“I am disastrously behind schedule, and seeing as I don’t exactly have a high social status to maintain by going along with this…delusion, I must be going. Do have a good day, sir, and I hope you find your way home.” She bends to collect her packages, shoving the yellow dress back into its own box as if it’s to blame for this entire fiasco.

With literally nothing better to do, and the fact that my mom would murder me if she found out I hadn’t, I attempt to help by stacking the boxes closest to me, and I can feel her side-eyeing me as I do.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“Nebraska, but I fish offshore from Washington state in the summers.” We’re back to standing awkwardly, staring at each other. The princess and the opossum.

“I thought I paid enough attention to my lessons, but I must be mistaken. I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea where either of those places are.” She tilts her head, squinting at the pond as if the answers will come gasping out like I did.

“Nebraska and Washington? The states? In America?”

Now I’m the one thinking she might be an idiot. Except it only lasts a second because her composure breaks and she finally laughs at me. Again!

“America?” She shakes her head. “No wonder you’re so lost and sound so…peculiar. Shouldn’t you be off fighting? I don’t understand why you are here in London. Is that why you’re such a mess? Did you fall off the ship at the harbor?”

“Fighting? What the hell do I need to be fighting? I’m dead. And to be honest…“ I throw my hands in the air, almost toppling my dress-box-Jenga in the process. “I don’t understand why I’m here either.”

She looks around before responding, clearly disbelieving my ignorance. “The war? The one you dirty Colonials started? And for heaven’s sake, you are not dead, though I wager you must have hit your head.”

“War? What war? Hold up—what year is it? No, wait, back up. What do you mean we started? Hell no, that was all you. Wait…I’m not dead? Are you sure? Can I get back to the boat then? Is this like some Oz shit? I’m just knocked the fuck out and I’ll wake up in bed? No, it won’t be a bed. Carter would leave my ass on the deck, even though I saved his stupid ass—“

Josephine cuts me off by shoving an armful of dress boxes against my chest. “For goodness’ sake, you should breathe between words!” She huffs and smooths her skirts before continuing, “You need a physician, and I don’t have time to dawdle. Let’s go.” Without another word, she steps around me, and I turn and follow. Really, what the hell else am I going to do?

My feet are heavy and numb by the time we leave the park and make it the short distance to a quaint little dress shop. Turns out, walking down cobblestone streets after taking a pseudo-ice bath while wearing only one thin cotton sock sucks. Josephine quickly unlocks the door, beckoning me to follow and to leave the dresses on a short bench just inside. She mentions bargaining with someone named Thomas that she would let him keep his job if he delivered the rest of the gowns before nightfall.

I’ve followed her to the back of the shop to what must be a dressing room of sorts, and now she’s staring at me with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Strip,” she commands.

I choke.

“I’m sorry?”

“You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death. Strip and I’ll find you something to wear in the meantime,” she deadpans. I stare back, waiting for her next move.

“Aren’t you going to…leave? Or is this morphing into a wet dream? Jo, you’re hot, but I’m a little too stressed out right now for this, and even if I was, I’m absolutely not down for creaming my bibs in my sleep.”

Her face morphs while she squeaks out an, “Oh!” and she looks so much like my favorite slow loris GIF that I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from laughing as she disappears up a small set of stairs at the back of the room. A loft maybe?

The floor creaks as she returns, and I begin spinning in naked panic circles, realizing I didn’t check to see if there was anything for me to put on after the stripping part.

Except it’s worse than that, because it’s not Josephine in the doorway. No, in fact, it’s some old broad who is literally clutching her pearls, eyes glued to my dangly bits.

“It’s really fucking cold,” I blurt out, clapping my hands over my shit as a last grasp at modesty.

That’s when Josephine comes back down. “Do you do anything other than gripe about the temperature? I swear I’ve met children who whine less—“

I turn my head to her just in time to see her miss the last step, sending her on a face-first trajectory toward the floor. I don’t even think before swooping in to catch her…I should have, but I didn’t. What’s the point of having a brain if you don’t use it?

Anyway, that’s how I ended up on my back, buck-ass-naked, with Jo laying on top of me in front of somebody’s grandma who’s face is so flushed I can only assume she’s going to have a heart attack.

This fucking day just keeps on giving.

Close Encounters With The Johnson

Josephine

This Corinthian of a man—for I cannot possibly call him a gentleman—is as naked as the day he was born. He’s both freezing to the touch, but also somehow feverishly hot. Beneath my fingers, his hairy chest rises and falls rapidly. All that cold, heated nakedness sprawls underneath me.