to reach out and brush a finger down
her cheek.
“If it's
something you love,” I said. “Then it's never silly, Mia.”
She
smiled. Our eyes locked. My heart, for the briefest moment, sprouted wings.
“Will you
be able to read my test results now?” she asked, which only managed to sink me
back into reality, and the sole reason that we were once again face-to-face. I
was her doctor. “Oddly, everything seemed fine these past two weeks, to be
honest.”
“No
occurrences of chest pains, tightness?”
“Maybe
twice,” she said. “But other than that, no.”
I picked
up her file, jotted the note down, then stood, offering a hand.
“Come
with me,” I told her. “We'll tie this up in my office.”
I felt
the delicateness of her shoulder as I brushed a hand across it; it was small,
round, much like a sparrow's skull.
Safely
tucked away in my office, I closed the door, locked it (a usual practice, I
swear), and offered her a chair. Her eyes darted around quickly, immediately
grabbing, I'm sure, for glimpses of who I was.
When we
were both settled, she glanced at me, her expression unreadable, and said:
“You
don't have many photos,” her voice cracked, like whiskey over ice. “Do you have
a girlfriend?”
I shook
my head.
“No,” I
said. “No Mrs., either.”
“Do you
have children?”
“No
children.”
“What
about a mother and father?”
Her face
was full of genuine curiosity. It colored her eyes brighter.
“I have
both,” I answered. “Perfectly pleasant people, but not so photogenic, to be
frank. And I do have one brother, but he'd find it pretty strange if I had his
photo sitting on my desk.”
She
chuckled. I did the same.
“You went
to Harvard,” her eyes fell upon my diplomas, scanning over each one. “That's
amazing.”
I nodded.
“A long
time ago, it feels like,” I said. “But UCF is a very good school. You should be
proud.”
“I am. I
am proud. I have a full scholarship, too. Graduating debt-free.”
“Any
plans for after graduation?”
Her
shoulders sank, her eyes following.
“Not
sure,” she said. “I mean, I have a few hopes thrown into the air, but I try not
to breathe much life into them. It makes it harder if they don't pan out, you
know?”
I nodded.
She looked up at me once more. And I could see, with a greater clarity than
before, that the wheels inside her head, all copper cogs, were turning.
“How old
are you?” she finally asked.
I paused
before answering. I guess I was worried that it would give me away, and her
eyes would fall, and whatever this lunacy was that I imagined I was projecting
would be brought to the surface. And that frightened the hell out of me.
“Thirty-two,”
I told her briskly. “Why do you ask?”
She
tilted her head to one side, then the other.
“You look
younger,” she said. “You have very young eyes. The rest of you, maybe, okay.
But your eyes are so vibrant.”
I smiled,
and she added: “That, too.”
I leaned
forward, took her hand, and spoke softly:
“Thank
you, Mia.”
She
swallowed, moving as close as she could get without falling off the edge of her
chair. And when I could start to feel the gentle quake of her hand beneath my
palm, I turned her wrist to check her pulse.
“You're
nervous,” I said. “Why are you nervous, honey?”
Mia appeared
torn. “I'm not sure.”
Hesitantly,
she removed her hand from under mine, and began tracing circles around the
inside of my palm. Every bone in my body went weak; hot blood surged through my
veins.
“I can
feel it in my throat,” she said. “When I get wound up. It's the strangest
thing.”
“The
jugular,” I explained. “That's another pulse point.”
“Could
you show me?”
My breath
hitched as she drew her hair back, revealing her throat, white as pristine
ivory. I stood, walking towards her, and instinctively she pushed her chair
back so that I could kneel without wedging myself between she and the desk.
Reaching
up, I pressed two
her cheek.
“If it's
something you love,” I said. “Then it's never silly, Mia.”
She
smiled. Our eyes locked. My heart, for the briefest moment, sprouted wings.
“Will you
be able to read my test results now?” she asked, which only managed to sink me
back into reality, and the sole reason that we were once again face-to-face. I
was her doctor. “Oddly, everything seemed fine these past two weeks, to be
honest.”
“No
occurrences of chest pains, tightness?”
“Maybe
twice,” she said. “But other than that, no.”
I picked
up her file, jotted the note down, then stood, offering a hand.
“Come
with me,” I told her. “We'll tie this up in my office.”
I felt
the delicateness of her shoulder as I brushed a hand across it; it was small,
round, much like a sparrow's skull.
Safely
tucked away in my office, I closed the door, locked it (a usual practice, I
swear), and offered her a chair. Her eyes darted around quickly, immediately
grabbing, I'm sure, for glimpses of who I was.
When we
were both settled, she glanced at me, her expression unreadable, and said:
“You
don't have many photos,” her voice cracked, like whiskey over ice. “Do you have
a girlfriend?”
I shook
my head.
“No,” I
said. “No Mrs., either.”
“Do you
have children?”
“No
children.”
“What
about a mother and father?”
Her face
was full of genuine curiosity. It colored her eyes brighter.
“I have
both,” I answered. “Perfectly pleasant people, but not so photogenic, to be
frank. And I do have one brother, but he'd find it pretty strange if I had his
photo sitting on my desk.”
She
chuckled. I did the same.
“You went
to Harvard,” her eyes fell upon my diplomas, scanning over each one. “That's
amazing.”
I nodded.
“A long
time ago, it feels like,” I said. “But UCF is a very good school. You should be
proud.”
“I am. I
am proud. I have a full scholarship, too. Graduating debt-free.”
“Any
plans for after graduation?”
Her
shoulders sank, her eyes following.
“Not
sure,” she said. “I mean, I have a few hopes thrown into the air, but I try not
to breathe much life into them. It makes it harder if they don't pan out, you
know?”
I nodded.
She looked up at me once more. And I could see, with a greater clarity than
before, that the wheels inside her head, all copper cogs, were turning.
“How old
are you?” she finally asked.
I paused
before answering. I guess I was worried that it would give me away, and her
eyes would fall, and whatever this lunacy was that I imagined I was projecting
would be brought to the surface. And that frightened the hell out of me.
“Thirty-two,”
I told her briskly. “Why do you ask?”
She
tilted her head to one side, then the other.
“You look
younger,” she said. “You have very young eyes. The rest of you, maybe, okay.
But your eyes are so vibrant.”
I smiled,
and she added: “That, too.”
I leaned
forward, took her hand, and spoke softly:
“Thank
you, Mia.”
She
swallowed, moving as close as she could get without falling off the edge of her
chair. And when I could start to feel the gentle quake of her hand beneath my
palm, I turned her wrist to check her pulse.
“You're
nervous,” I said. “Why are you nervous, honey?”
Mia appeared
torn. “I'm not sure.”
Hesitantly,
she removed her hand from under mine, and began tracing circles around the
inside of my palm. Every bone in my body went weak; hot blood surged through my
veins.
“I can
feel it in my throat,” she said. “When I get wound up. It's the strangest
thing.”
“The
jugular,” I explained. “That's another pulse point.”
“Could
you show me?”
My breath
hitched as she drew her hair back, revealing her throat, white as pristine
ivory. I stood, walking towards her, and instinctively she pushed her chair
back so that I could kneel without wedging myself between she and the desk.
Reaching
up, I pressed two
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