While riding my motorcycle one afternoon, a dog darted into the road. I swerved instinctively to avoid it, lost control, and ended up tumbling into a ditch. As I struggled to crawl out, bruised and muddy, a car pulled over, and a beautiful woman stepped out, rushing toward me.
“Are you okay?” she asked with genuine concern.
“I think so,” I muttered, brushing off dirt as I got to my feet.
“Come on,” she said firmly, “get in my car. My place is just a few blocks away. You can clean up there, and I’ll check to make sure you’re not seriously hurt.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied hesitantly, “but my wife might not like that idea.”
She gave me a soft smile. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “This is purely professional. You need to get those scrapes looked at and cleaned up properly.”
She was persistent, and I was sore. Reluctantly, I agreed, but as I got into her car, I couldn’t help repeating, “I’m really not sure my wife will be okay with this.”
When we arrived at her place, she led me inside and showed me to the bathroom to clean up. Afterward, she examined my scrapes with practiced care, ensuring there were no serious injuries. She even offered me a drink to calm my nerves, and we ended up having a couple together.
Still, guilt gnawed at me. “I feel a lot better now,” I said finally, “but I really need to go. My wife is going to be furious.”
The woman chuckled, waving off my concerns. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Stay a while longer. She won’t know anything. I mean, she’s at home, isn’t she?”
I hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Well,” I admitted sheepishly, “not exactly. She’s still in the ditch.”