HM's Imagination Is Off Its Leash

When we last convened, I shared a random encounter at the gas station chicken store. I had parked beside a car with a woman who was apparently waiting for something. Or someone. Someone in the form of a woman who parked a distance from her car, walked over to talk, then left without buying anything. Here is what I overheard:

Long Hair: "I washed it off and now it's under my bed." She smiled and flipped her hair back with one hand.

Short Hair chuckled. "I''ll see you. You be careful." Then she turned and walked back to her car. Didn't get gas or soda or chicken or anything.

Wouldn't you like to know what's under the bed?

Seriously. What could Long Hair have possibly put under her bed? My imagination has been working overtime.

Her summer bedspread? I don't think so. That snippet of conversation sounded conspiratorial. Who waits at a gas station chicken store to tell somebody she washed her summer bedspread? And what would she need to be careful of, overheating under the winter quilt?

A knife used for murder? That would need to be washed off. And hidden. But they didn't seem agitated. No tell-tale heart thumping to make them nervous. Besides, I would not keep a murder weapon under my bed. Might as well put a flashing neon sign on the roof advertising Murderer Inside. With a red arrow pointing down.

A sex toy? Those things probably need a good scrubbing after each play session. Can't speak from experience, and I'm not an investigative reporter, so I have no stable of experts to consult. But under the bed seems like a good storage space. It's not like you're going to hang it on the wall over the fireplace.

Recently deceased Grandma's prosthetic leg? Maybe there was a family power struggle to see who was awarded custody, and the bitter losers were planning a coup. Who would think to look under the bed for Grandma's leg, especially with her scent washed off?

The severed finger of a hostage? It could be used for unlocking his iPhone 5s and gaining access to his super-secret laboratory where he was turning lead into gold. Far-fetched, perhaps, but an intriguing plot. However, it's risky to leave the hostage home alone while meeting up with your accomplice at the gas station chicken store.

A crack pipe? If she was a novice crackhead, maybe. Because I don't remember ever hearing reports of the cleanliness and stealthiness of career crackheads. Then again, I never knew those little glass tube thingies with a fake rose at convenience stores were used for smoking crack. I learned it on the internet. Just before I met my boyfriend, the French model. He had me at "Bonjour."

I have no idea what item would need to be washed and stored under a bed, then require a prearranged clandestine meeting on a public parking lot.

That's one for those CSI SVU NCIS NYPD shows.