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"Brilliant diagnosis," said Doggy.
"How long before I can fight again?" I asked.
The doc, mercifully, pulled away. "It isn't fatal, Tommy, and I know you aren't signing up for any beauty pageants. So whenever you and Doggy want back in is fine with me." He slapped Doggy on the shoulder and left.
"I wouldn't let that guy touch my dog," said Doggy, pulling off my gloves. "And I don't even like my dog."
The door flew open, and there was Cheryl Sue, wearing an orange scarf and a pair of orange Capri pants, her perfume filling the room. She still used that politically incorrect musk scent you can only get by killing rare reindeer or something.
"You did great, Tommy," she said, sticking out her butt and keeping her distance as she kissed my cheek. Cheryl Sue liked to pretend that the blood and sweat and pervasive stench of my profession didn't bother her. "If the guy doesn't get lucky and hurt your nose, I think you could've beat him."
"You hear that, Doggy?" I said. "She saw the same thing I did."
Doggy grunted. As much as he fought against it, he liked Cheryl Sue. "That's 'cause she's polite."
Cheryl Sue gently ran one of her orange fingernails along the bridge of my nose. "Will it affect your breathing?" What she meant was: Will you make noises like a horse when you're sleeping?
"Nah, and I'll be back in the ring in no time. The doc says it's a 'nonthreatening nasal condition.'"