Thank God.
Today, I was wearing torn jeans and a cute blouse, a sleeveless blouse, no less. Most importantly, I wasn't wearing multiple layers of clothing or one of my epic sunhats. Or satellite dishes, as a client had once called them.
It was just me. And that felt good. Damned good.
The man standing in the doorway was smaller than I expected. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls tank top and basketball shorts and high-top sneakers. He looked like he might have just stepped off the courts or raided a Foot Locker. The detailed tattoos that ran up and down his arms - and even along his neck - seemed to tell a story about something, although I couldn't puzzle it out at first blush.
"Russell?" I said.
"That's me," he said softly. "You must be Ms. Moon."
He dipped his head in a way that I found adorable. The dip was part greeting, part submission, and partly to let me know that he came in peace. We shook hands and I led him to my office in the back of my house, passing Anthony's empty room along the way. Well, not entirely empty. A pair of his white briefs sat in the middle of the floor, briefs that had seen better - and whiter - days. I reached in and quickly shut the door before my client got a good look at the mother of all skid marks.
Superman had Lex Luthor. Batman had the Joker. I had Anthony's skid marks.
Once safe in my office, I showed Russell to one of my client chairs and took a seat behind my cluttered desk.
"So, what can I do for you, Russell?" I asked.
"Jacky says you might be able to help me."
"Jacky, the boxing trainer?"
"Yes," he said.
"Jacky say anything else?"
"Only that you are a freak of nature."