It’s half an hour until wine time on Saturday afternoon and I’m in the sun room curled up on one of our bright yellow recliners, desperate to finish the last few pages of Liane Moriarity’s The Hypnotist’s Love Story. I’ve been hypnotized by all its pages and now, approaching the end, the final words, the “what a great book!” moment, I’m in a trance. Totally absorbed. I’ve loved this book and learned from it, too. In fact, I plan to hypnotize my boyfriend Robert when we go to bed. I wanted to practice on him earlier, but he’s been cleaning the pool and working in the garden all day (aka, ducking me). I’m unsure what I plan to achieve by hypnotizing him, but I’m leaning toward convincing him to rub my feet. They’re hideous, and I’ve seen pedicurists blanch at the sight of my misshapen big toes and multiple missing nails, but still. Diamonds and foot rubs are a girl’s best friends.
I’m so absorbed, I hear nothing. See nothing but the words on the page. I’ve got to get to the end before I’m late for cocktail hour and Robert starts wondering if I’m running a fever or something… The remainder of this piece appears here!
