“Look at this”—I presented my fingertip—”I'm bleeding to death from a four-inch gash in my lip. Ain't that a reason to snap?”

“Why, you dummy, that's my lipstick.” Her fingernails went to work on her other arm.

“Stop scratching,” I said. “Ninety million dollars a day and they can't stop the itching!” She scratched all the harder.

“I can have the doctor transfer me to a ward.”

“Ah, heck, Barbie, it ain't just the money.”

She said, “Why, Jimmy, you're worried about me.”

I shrugged. “I’m bored—I’m ready to get back out on the road.”

She sighed and said, “When I woke up this morning, the welts were gone.”

“But they're back now,” I said.

I gazed out the window at our two-year-old Freightliner. It was surrounded on all sides by four-wheelers. It looked like a tired old buffalo being attacked by Indians. “I'm glad you had a good sleep, Barbie. I sure didn't.”

She looked at me tenderly. “You missed me, huh?”

I stared at the television screen. “Well, maybe a little, I guess,” I mumbled. She beamed. “But don't go getting no big head,” I quickly added. “It was mostly 'cause you wasn't there to steal all the covers and crowd me against the wall. If I have to , I can do without you just fine.”

She scratched furiously at a quarter-sized welt at the right corner of her upper lip. “You're a real romantic guy, Jimmy.”

Barbara’s high-priced specialist swished into the room. “Well, how are we doing this morning?” he asked, smiling. He ought to have been dancing a jig. At a hundred seventy-five bucks for a two minute visit, he was doing fine, but Barbara was in torment , and I was drowning in debt. When his blue eyes took in the blood-red welts on Barbie's face, Doctor Sim's mouth formed a big circle. “The nurses reported that your skin was clear before midnight!”

“Don’t have any idea what could be causing the rash, Doctor Sims?” Barbara asked.

The doctor scowled, peeled the tape from the inside of her left forearm. “Mrs. Williams, I've tested you for hundreds of items, but so far, nothing. Here, see for yourself.” The skin beneath the bandage was pearly white, unblemished. "

I said, “So far, Doc, you ain't earned a penny.”

He sniffed the air and looked at me oddly. I sniffed. I didn't smell anything. “Mr. Williams, people develop allergies to any number of things, even mashed potatoes. But, never fear, I'll find the culprit.”

“You better,” I warned, “if you want to get paid.”

A rosy red blush crept up Barbara’s neck. I often embarrassed her. Grinning maliciously, Sims said, “Perhaps she's allergic to you, Mr. Williams. We humans have been known to develop allergies to individuals who annoy us greatly, such as an employer, or”—another evil grin—“an obnoxious mate.”

Barbara lay without moving, thoughtfully chewing her lip. “Jimmy, I didn't have any welts when you arrived.”

“Thanks a heap, Barbie,” I said. “I’ll remember you in my will. As for you, Doctor, I—”

“I was joking, Mr. Williams. I'm sure you and your wife have a perfect marriage.” He reached inside his white frock for a leather-bound notebook, opened it to a blank page, uncapped a Mont Blanc fountain pen and began to write. When he was through, he tore out the sheet, passed it to me and said, “Collect an ounce or so of everything on this list.” He sniffed the air and frowned. "Bring an entire bottle of whatever cologne you bathed in. Leave the items at the nurse's station this afternoon.” He jabbed the point of a the fancy pen at me. “Now this is important: Mr. Williams, I want you to stay away from your wife for the next two days.”

I shook my head. “My wife'd go crazy if she didn't see me for two whole days.”

She gave me a glance. “Oh, I think I can stand it, Jimmy.” After staring me down she smiled at the specialist. “I want to apologize for Jimmy. At his best, he's no sweetheart, but he's extra grumpy right now because he's lonely, sleeping in that old truck by himself.”

“Me?” I grunted. “Me, lonely?”

“Jimmy, go to the truck and get the stuff on the list.”

“The quicker, the better,” Sims said.

I scanned the page. “This is crazy,” I said. “How could anybody be allergic to toothpaste?”

Sims eyed me coldy. “Would you like me to find another doctor for your wife?”

“He might,” Barbara said, “but I wouldn’t. Jimmy, if I have to I’ll get up out of this bed and get the things myself.”

Mumbling to myself every step of the way, I went to the truck. Barbara’s warpaint filled a laundry bag; I could have carried mine in a shoe box and still had enough room for a pair of Reeboks. Halfway across the parking lot, I stopped and went ba ck for my almost-full bottle of Macho Man cologne.

Outside the door to Barbara’s room, an RN intercepted me. “Give me that bag, Mr. Williams,” the old battleaxe said. “You’ll need hospitilization yourself if you go near your wife. Go away and don’t come back.”

For forty-six hours and twelve minutes later, Doctor Sims exposed Barbara's left forearm for my inspection. “As you can see, Mr. Williams, there have been no reactions. Not even to your cologne.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “That don't leave but another zillion things to test for. I warn you, Doc, my insurance'll only pay 80% of the first million bucks—after that, you’re on your own.”

“Why don't we try a little experiment,” Doctor Sims said. “Rub your hands, your face, your arms, all over your wife.”

“Not in front of you I ain't, even if you are a doctor.”

“Jimmy, you dummy,” said Barbara. She reached up and grabbed the lapels of my shirt and pulled me down to her. After gently stroking my cheeks with her own, she took both my hands in hers and moved my palms over her exposed skin. Almost immediately, hu ge, blood-red welts began to appear. “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Barbara.

“Mmmm,” said the specialist, smiling beatifically.

I stumbled backward, and got my size eights tangled up with the doctor's size elevens. “Watch it,” I snarled. “These ostrich-skin boots set us back seven hundred bucks!”

“What?” asked Doctor Sims, staring at my feet.

“I said keep your surfboards off my new boots.”

He gazed thoughtfully in the general direction of my feet and nibbled the tip of his fountain pen. “Ostrich skin,” he said.

I groaned. “Doc, forget it! I ain't giving up my new boots.”

Barbara asked dryly, “Which would you rather have, Jimmy, me, or a pair of ostrich-skin boots?”

“Well....”

“Jimmy!”

I moaned. “Hon, these are the first good boots I ever owned.”

Doctor Sims muttered, mostly to himself, “Exotic leathers require periodic applications of conditioner.”

“Barbie-doll,” I said, “you know you mean more to me than anything except maybe my truck.” I tried to kiss her. She punched me in the chest.

Doctor Sims said, “Have you applied conditioner to your boots in the past week?”

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Of course I have. These're exotic leathers—they're delicate. I rub a special cream into the leather first thing every morning.”

“Do you wash your hands afterward?”

I snorted. “I ain't got a sink and a Jacuzzi in my truck, you know. I always wipe my hands on my face and forearms and rub it in real good. My skin's delicate, too.”

Doctor Sims snapped his fingers. “That's it, then. Another test will prove to be a mere formality, I’m sure. Don't worry, Mr. Williams, you can keep the boots—you’ll just have to find yourself another conditioner.”

“All right!” I exclaimed. “Barbie-doll, I can keep my boots!”

“How about me, Jimmy. You get to keep me, too.”

I grinned and pinched her cheek. “That's nice, too, but a new wife'd be easier to break in than a pair of boots.”