When an insurance actuary lands a date with Coyote the Trickster, she discovers not every “Ten” is perfect.
No predisposition to diseases—and that body! Her mind was already calculating him at HRA two-point-five even as she laughed at his joke. She sipped her wine.
“Accident prone?" The words were out of her mouth before she realized it, and she hastened to add in what she hoped was a flirtatious way, “I mean, you must have some weaknesses. Or are you Superman?”
“Superman, that square-jawed comic book guy? He’s a stuffed shirt even when he’s wearing tights! Forget it. I want to live life, enjoying each moment, following my whims, savoring my passions. So I get injured? I heal fast. In fact, I recover pretty fast in just about everything.”
How could he be so ignorant of things like bank machines and so sophisticated with the double-entendre? Sheila felt the heat rise to her face, and glanced at the unopened menu beside her glass, hiding her grin behind a fist and ignoring the calculator in her head trying to convert “So I get injured? I heal fast” into concrete risk numbers. When she looked up, he was looking at her with that same…incredible…look he’d given her through the camera. Only this time it was just for her…
Shyly, she stretched her hand invitingly across the table. He glanced at it, met her eyes. She leaned forward.
He leaned toward her…
Then stopped abruptly to scratch behind his ear with short jerky motions.
She blinked. “Um, psoriasis?” she asked hesitantly.
“Probably not,” he said, crushing something between his fingernails. Still gazing at her, he flipped it carelessly aside.
She heard a—Plink!
“Now.” He licked his lips. “Where were we?" He leaned forward.
She flipped open the menu in front of her. “So, what do you think’s good here?”