Free Spin Doctor by Leslie Carroll

professional actresses, really got into the idea of being costumed. Alice had taken her ensemble to the theatre and changed clothes in the dressing room after her Grandma Finnegan’s Wake performance.
    â€œI feel like shit,” Izzy announced suddenly.
    â€œLet’s find the ladies’ room then,” I suggested.
    â€œNo, not that kind of shit. I’m not going to puke or anything. This is only Diet Coke,” she said, raising her glass. Izzy suddenly burst into tears.
    Alice put her arm over her friend’s shoulder and began to comfort her. “Do you want to get up? Move around a bit? Let’s take a walk. How’s that sound?”
    Izzy shook her head. “I…feel so…unloved,” she sobbed. “Sorry,” she immediately added, fishing for a tissue in her evening purse. “My hormones are going insane.” She assumed an expression of forced cheer. “Don’t mind me! I’m okay!”
    â€œHey, you want to dance?” Alice asked her.
    Izzy nodded. “Yeah. That’s like a moving hug. And I really need a hug. Damn! I used to act this way when I was drunk! ”
    â€œWell, you have a different ‘excuse’ now,” I said. “The hormones. It’s okay. I seem to remember being pretty wacko both times I was pregnant too.”
    â€œHow old are your kids?” Izzy asked.
    â€œEleven and sixteen. And as temperamentally different as two kids could possibly be. One is an angel and the other…isn’t.”
    â€œI hope this is a girl,” Izzy said, patting her belly. “They’re much easier.”
    â€œIt’s a myth!” I snorted, wondering what the hell Molly was up to tonight. She said she was going to the movies with a girlfriend this evening, having promised on all she held sacred (so I had my doubts) that she’d do her homework first. At her age, most of her classmates go out on weekday evenings as long as they observe a curfew, so it’s bootless for me to try to force her to stay at home. I did remind Molly that it was a school night, but I’m pretty confident, from experience, that my words carried all the weight of a mayfly.
    Alice devoured the maraschino cherry in her cocktail, followed by several valiant though unsuccessful attempts to tie the stem into a knot with her tongue. Izzy slurped down the remainder of her diet soda, then the two of them negotiated their way to the crowded dance floor. The music was a sultry though occasionally strident German torch song that managed to simultaneously relax me and make me nervous. I leaned against the ruby-colored banquette and sipped my vodka tonic, closing my eyes—with one hand on my purse, of course—letting the tune get under my skin. A few moments later I returned my focus to the dance floor, wondering why I’d accepted Claude and Naomi’s invitation. It had nothing to do with socializing in the same venue as some of my clients. In many instances, avoiding those situations is impractical.My laundry room clients are women I’ve grown fond of; we frequently run into one another in the building, chatting informally when we do. To maintain appropriate boundaries, the only actual rule I enforce is that the dirty linen aired during the sessions in the basement stays in the basement.
    My ambivalence tonight came from something else entirely. I just wasn’t in a dancing mood and felt guilty that I wasn’t enjoying my complimentary drink.
    I watched Alice and Izzy doing the junior high hug-and-sway. Izzy suddenly burst into tears again on Alice’s shoulder. Without missing a beat, Alice removed the white pocket square from her tuxedo jacket and dried her friend’s eyes. It was a touching, unguarded moment that suddenly made me realize that I have no girlfriends whose shoulders I can cry on. In fact, I have no friends who I feel as close and connected to as I do with some of my clients. I’ve heard colleagues