Georgia’s Bad with Numbers

We girls were down at the coffee shop once when a traveler passed through town and pulled in for some caffeine. He was a real friendly fellow, a divorced doctor who was getting ready to retire and move to Florida. We were picking with him about retiring here instead when Georgia Hathcock (whose names have been changed to protect the not so innocent) came in dressed to the nines. She noticed the handsome man about as fast as a fly finds a picnic. Manners dictated that we introduce her. Georgia held out her hand and the man popped out of his chair like a moth to a flame. Men do that around Georgia.

We were treated to a full out flirt between Georgia and the good doctor. She started by reeling him in with a poor-pitiful me routine.

“Why, I feel so fortunate to run into a doctor today. I’ve been feeling a mite poorly.”
“Oh, really,” the visitor said sympathetically, “how so?”
“Well,” Georgia said, “I’ve been suffering from a loss of sleep.”
The man nodded. “And a loss of appetite,” Georgia said. The man smiled. Georgia moved in closer. This time she did some careful repositioning, just a little posing you know, sort of like one of those beauty pageant contestants.

“And that,” Georgia said, “has made it hard to keep enough meat on my bones, here. Why, I’m afraid I’ve suffered some weight loss on top of everything.”

We were all surprised at his next question, but sometimes men don’t think straight at times like that. “Hmm…” the fly said as he was mulling over the female spider’s symptoms, “tell me, how old are you?”

I tried not to catch anyone’s eye. “Uh…thirty-two,” Georgia said, in a low whisper. I knew it wasn’t low enough and I was right. Randy, our resident comedian spoke up quickly, “Poor, Georgia,” Randy said. “It sounds like you’ve suffered some memory loss there, too.”

Hugs,
Shellie