Fast Green

About 2 weeks ago, Alison posted her latest contest idea, inspired by an editing goof she'd made. I read as far as this part: "Anyway, this leads to my new contest. Write me a 250-word piece about search and replace. No, kidding."

"Search and replace? "I thought. "Weird. What?" I, ahem, *may* have skimmed the rest of the post. And this is the story I came up with, before I realized that she actually WAS kidding:

Fast Green

“Oh no you did NOT!” I shrieked. I was covered in the stuff.

He smirked.

“Tam,” I moaned. “it’s *everywhere*! This stuff stains, you know.”

He stood back, surveying the damage. “I know. But you asked for it.”

True. I knew he was trying to work at the patio table but the sunshine beckoned and once I was there, stretched out and oiled in my teeny bikini, I couldn’t help but tease him a little. Even so, his hands were steady, competent: applying the stain, fixative, and specimen to each slide, documenting and numbering each one.

Finally I gave up trying to distract him – he wouldn’t be distracted anyway—and rolled onto my back, leaving my top behind, and dozed a little.

Drip. Drip. Drip. I was sweating.

No, not sweat--bright green dots from his precise little medicine dropper dotted my chest, my belly, my thighs.

He picked up the garden hose.

My eyes narrowed. “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”

He did. Dripping, I tackled him, soaking through his T shirt and cargo shorts. Then I was under him, his erection hard against my pubic bone, and his eyes dropped to my speckled chest. A dime-sized dot lay in the two-o’clock spot of my left aureole.

Bending his head, he kissed the spot. Sucked on it, lightly bit. Color rose, obscuring the green blemish.

“Don’t--” I scolded.

“S’okay,” he mumbled, moving to another dot. “Same stuff as food coloring.”

One by one, he searched out every mark and replaced it with his own.