The dermatologist surprised her by doing a biopsy on one questionable tag, freezing off three mole-like things, and taking sterile scissors to several actual skintags.
"Your insurance won't cover the cost of the ones I can snip off. Are you sure you wish me to proceed?" asked her dermatologist. She was originally from England and very proper. The doctor was quite fond of being very proper and very English. She'd been in the States for 30 years and had not lost a bit of her accent.
"That's fine," she said. "I'm feeling flush."
"That's $17.50 each," the doctor advised.
"Fine. Still feeling flush," she said.
The doctor applied the local anesthesia and proceed to snip, cut, and sew.
"I didn't think there'd be stitches," she told the doctor.
"I wanted to make sure I had plenty for the biopsy," informed the physician. "Keep it covered with an adhesive bandage and try to not get it wet. Come back in two weeks and we'll remove the stitches."
She didn't ask if she would have a scar because the doctor would say, "Do as you're told and you'll have a good result." She'd asked this doctor questions like this before.
She needed to acquire some waterproof bandages before going home. Some cartoon bandage or other, she thought. Keeping the wound dry meant no makeup for two weeks which gave her the pleasure of sleeping ten minutes later in the morning. It was almost Thanksgiving, a time for celebrations with family and her family didn't care what she looked like as long as she was clean. Cartoon bandages and no makeup? The little cousins, nieces, and nephews loved those and got excited when an adult sported them. The notion made her smile as she entered the store.
She headed for the back of the store where they kept the vast selection of bandages. Her preference, of course, was to have something made in the USA. Of course, the best cartoon bandages were made in Brazil, Canada, Egypt, or China. She could have solid colors that were made in Minnesota. A coworker had bacon strip bandages once but the coworker was sketchy about where those were purchased. She sucked it up and decided Sponge Bob would delight kids and make adults question her sanity, both things resulting in more smiles.
At home that night, she carefully cleaned off the area of the wounds and as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, thought back to her weird day. The giant driving the tiny Fiat 500. Handsome finding her in the restaurant and then trying to buy her a coat. The picture of the license plate.
Handsome didn't know she had the photo of the license plate. The giant and Handsome didn't know she'd taken a picture; they'd seen her but not her with her phone, taking the shot.
She walked over to the couch and sat down. She stared at the floor for at least ten minutes as visions of "What the fuck?" ran through her head.
She finally got up and went to her purse and saw she'd missed a text from Lee asking where they were going to meet and another two asking where she was. There was a text from her cousin advising the time for Thanksgiving the next week and to let her know if she was going to bring a guest. Her cousin knew she never brought a guest even when there was a significant other in her life but always asked because it was nice to ask. She texted back the info to Lee and her thanks to her cousin and looked at the picture of the license plate.
It was a clear picture of the plate, the stickers, the license plate frame that proclaimed "Water for my horses and whiskey for my men." It was not a vanity plate and the number was not one to be easily remembered. And here it was.
Her cousin's husband worked for the Secretary of State's office and he might tell her how to get the name of the person associated with the plate. She looked up their number on the phone and hit send but disconnected before it completed. Requesting information like this would take some thought because there would be questions from the husband -- "Why do you want to know? Were you in an accident with this person? How do you know this person? HOW do you know this person? What are you doing to do with the information?" -- and she had to think how she would answer before she asked.
She walked over to the shopping back with the new coat, took it out of the bag, gave it a shake, admired it at arms' length, unbuttoned it, and put it on. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her hall and admired herself. She looked like 50%-off of a million bucks which was really damn fine. She twirled this way and that and decided that her own parents might not recognize her in this coat. She pulled out box containing a hat she'd bought on sale at the end of the previous winter and put it on. Even she was impressed with how good she looked, stitches on her face and all.
Still wearing the coat and hat, she sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. What the hell was she going to tell her cousin's husband? She felt like a light went on inside her head. She sat bolt upright. The idea was so crazy that he probably wouldn't want her to give more information or even hear the story again. She was going to tell him the truth.
She stood up, took off the coat and hat and put them in the closet. She really looked forward to Thanksgiving and was humming around her apartment all the way until she got into bed for the night.