Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms by Chuck Austen

popped up over the edge of the pool as if I’d been waiting for Ms. Nuckeby all along, merely taking a moment to check things out from below the surface, and hoped there was no blood trailing up from my self-inflicted genital wounds.
    But she was gone.
    I looked around anxiously, then spied her inside. She was pointing and gesturing with concern back in my direction, and speaking in agitated tones, again to Woodruff. He seemed— surprise—to be having difficulty understanding. I took his sluggishness as an opportunity to make good my escape and bolted for the other side of the pool, splashing and thrashing like a sea lion being attacked by a killer whale.
    Now was not the time for subtlety.
    Somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard Bailey Weebimix laughing with glee.
    Once at the pool’s far side, I leaped out and dashed into the house through a side door, traversed the kitchen in a mad slide, slipping only once and managing to avoid impaling myself on some wellplaced kitchen knives I had never used and whose only purpose, as far as I knew, were to skewer homeowners racing naked through their own kitchens.
    I skidded briefly into a cupboard, banged my head on a hanging pot ($169.95 from Williams Sonoma, and apparently you can use it to cook things in), bounded over a dinette chair and managed to slip out the pocket-door leading into the foyer, at the back of which Woodruff was finally beginning to understand what Ms. Nuckeby was desperately attempting to convey in life-or-death terms.
    “Do you suppose Mister Wopplesdown has been injured?” he asked, sounding curiously pleased.
    “I don’t know,” Ms. Nuckeby said, sounding quite frightened. “Shouldn’t you do something? Check the grounds? Call someone? Turn off the power breakers?” Her voice was magnificent. Like milk and honey to a dying thing that needs—milk and honey. It made me sigh, audibly and desperately.
    “What was that?”
    Dammit.
    “What was what , madam?”
    “That sound. Like someone sighed. Didn’t you hear it?”
    “I try not to hear such things, madam. It usually means I’ve done something wrong.”
    Footsteps headed my way. Too quick and efficient to be Woodruff, so I dove into the foyer coat closet and silently shut the door. Outside, I heard someone come to a stop, and—presumably— look around in befuddlement.
    “You think that was him?” Ms. Nuckeby asked.
    “He has been known to sigh, madam,” Woodruff offered.
    “Then where is he? Is he avoiding me?”
    “Avoiding you , madam? You’re an attractive woman. I can’t imagine him doing such a thing,” he said with almost undetectable sarcasm. “ Unless … ”
    I gasped. He wouldn’t!
    “Unless, what?”
    “Well,” Woodruff said, pausing for emphasis. “There are rumors .”
    He would! I wanted to kick him through the door. There are no rumors! There’s a few minutes of video , and I was clearly in an altered state of mind!
    “Oh, the gay thing? Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that’s not true. This afternoon he…” she giggled.
    She giggled?
    “Madam?” Woodruff asked.
    “Nothing. Then if he’s not avoiding me, where is he?”
    “I’m sure I do not know, madam.”
    “Well, he may have other reasons for not wanting to see me.”
    No! NO! I wanted to see you, but just not naked. At least not me naked. Or, rather: not me being naked alone . I mean, not with other people, but with…
    Lord. I can’t even talk to myself .
    Then, finally realizing I was in a closet, I began searching feverishly for an article of clothing. After several seconds of silent, mad groping in the near-total darkness, all I could feel were a vacuum cleaner, a flashlight, a box of old Christmas paper, and ornaments, a power drill, a fireplace lighter, and some cans of spray paint. I considered my options a moment, and then decided these were really the wrong ingredients for me to be improvising with.
    “He likes comics,” Ms. Nuckeby said, sounding pleased, apparently admiring my