This Time Around

“Is there any way you could hurry,” I asked the Korean lady, watching impatiently as she slowly filed my nails. “I’m kinda on a schedule.”

“I hurry, I hurry,” she replied, picking up a pair of tweezers as she began to clip my cuticles.

I glanced at the clock for what seemed like the millionth time since I had arrived.

I mentally calculated how much time I had left to get everything done and be home in time to watch Simon on SNL.

I was quickly brought back to the present as I yelped in pain, looking down at my thumb to find blood forming a small pool on my nail.

“Ow,” I said again, softer, looking the lady in the eyes.

“I so sorry!” she apologized, grabbing a paper towel and blotting the blood.

“Better?” she asked as she applied pressure.

“Yeah,” I lied, my thumb still throbbing.

“So sorry,” she apologized again.

“It’s okay,” I said, offering her a forced smile as I glanced down at my thumb again, watching as she continued her work on my nails.

Luckily I escaped the rest of the manicure unscathed, and I was able to make a quick trip to the grocery store and still make it home in time to see Saturday Night Live.

Thirty minutes later Simon’s segment still hadn’t aired, and I got up to go get ready for bed, watching from my bathroom as an “Easter Treat” began.

Four guys dressed in pastels, singing some song about how Christmas was better than Easter- -I was already cracking up.

I was so enthralled in the skit I couldn’t make my legs move if I wanted, so I stayed, transfixed, as Simon’s face appeared on the television.

“Absolutely awful.”

He looked scared as hell, but completely in control all at the same time.

In fact, I was probably the only one who could really tell he was nervous.

But God, he was still gorgeous.

The classic black t-shirt, tightly hugging his arms and chest, the faked look of disgust, all of it.

I was so proud of him.

“I would rather let William Hung lick honey off my nipples, than listen to you lot for another second. And he’s offered,” Simon continued.

Oh, that’s classic, I thought, my legs buckling underneath me as I fell to my knees in laughter.

I could tell by the insecure glances down and multiple blinks that he was doing all he could to stay in control of his nerves.

And for his first time, he was doing a damn good job.

“You honestly think that I would want to join your sorry little combo? Are you serious?”

“Come on Simon, you know you want to.”

“No I don’t,” he argued, unsuccessfully attempting to hide the smile that was threatening to cross his serious expression.

“Yeah you do.”

“No I don’t,” he argued, slightly less convincing.

“Yeah, you do.”

“Well, yes I would actually.”

There was that sheepish look I loved so much.

My eyes widened at the thought.

They wouldn’t have him get on stage?

…Would they?

“I would actually like that very much. Do you know no one has ever given me a chance to perform before? I’ve never actually been included in anything,” he said with faux vulnerability, a dramatic pout playing on his lips.

I involuntarily touched my lips at the sight, taking a moment to remember the way it had felt to kiss him.

I could still taste him, still feel his soft lips pressed urgently against mine, his tongue slipping past the crevices and exploring every inch of my mouth.

It was then that I noticed my laughter had subsided, and I’d fallen into a daydream-like daze.

I blinked, bringing myself back to the present.

“Well, I did bring my maracas,” Simon said as he reached beneath his seat and held them up proudly, giving them a little shake.

I squealed and clapped with delight as he joined the group on stage.

This was even better than I expected!

By the time Simon was in place on the stage, donned in a purple shirt, bobbing his head and shaking his maracas, I was squatted on the ground, holding my sides from the laughter.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, beaming with pride as I tapped my foot along with the catchy beat.

And that’s when I saw it.

He opened his mouth, simply singing two words.

“Paula Abdul.”

My laughter diminished, and I’m sure I was a sight to behold.

Half dressed, squatted on the bathroom floor, mouth agape with shock.

Was that a coincidence?

Or did he intentionally start singing when my name came in the lyrics?

Knowing the show had already finished taping by the time L.A. saw it, I immediately jumped up, grabbed my phone, and dialed the number to his cell.

Disappointed when I got his voice mail, I left a simple message.

“I hope when you get home, you’ll shake those maracas for me.”