Perfectly Adequate(11)
He leans closer, sharing his coffee breath on a whisper, “Dorothy … are you a virgin? A well-read virgin?”
I stumble backward, hitting the wall. “No. I’m not a virgin!”
Warren’s eyes widen as he looks around the hallway at the few bystanders silenced from my answer that may have been a bit louder than necessary. Does he really believe I’m a virgin at thirty?
An unsettling amusement ghosts across his face as one side of his mouth curls into a smile, showing off one dimple. “When you take lunch, page me. We’ll see who does it better.” He pivots, strutting toward the elevator.
“I only have thirty minutes for lunch.”
“Then find me quickly.” He keeps strutting.
“But I have to eat my soup and carrots.”
“Bring them with you.” His shoulders shake, and I know he’s laughing at me … again.
*
Over the next five hours, I pass by different on-call rooms, and my skin begins to itch. I have to be allergic to Warren. Or he gave me something. He did breathe on me, and he’s around sick kids all day long. It’s disgusting how many doctors don’t follow proper protocol to prevent cross-contamination. I bet those on-call rooms are breeding grounds for every infection known to man.
Just what I need, some fatal infection that causes bleeding from all of my orifices. I inspect my skin for bruising—indicative of internal bleeding.
Since it’s a sunny day, I take my lunch outside instead of paging Dr. Warren. I prefer clean bedrooms … and half-deflated blowup mattresses, but that’s a story for another day. Planting my butt beneath a maple tree, I slip in my earbuds and re-listen to a podcast on flesh-eating infections. Just in case …
“Canned, no-chicken soup?”
Plucking my earbuds from my ears, I glance up at Dr. Hawkins and his god-like aura as he squats in front of me, sipping something from a YETI mug. He’s hot. My mind reaches for something better, a better word than hot because I like words—words like synecdoche and scaturient. But I have to call it like I see it. And the more I see it/him, it’s hard to not fixate on his hotness.
Tall, athletic build.
Bright eyes that shine with more green than brown in the sunlight.
A flosser’s smile.
And large hands—the strong, capable kind that can break something, not just the kind with freakishly long fingers dangling like jellyfish tentacles from bony appendages. Dr. Hawkins has hands that don’t just hold shit. They command everything they touch.
Or so I imagine.
“Yes.” I spoon another bite of my chicken-less soup.
“You’re eating that cold out of the can?”
I shake my head. “Room temperature.”
He chuckles. “There are microwaves in the break rooms.”
“Yes. But have you seen them? Disgusting.”
Rubbing his lips together, he nods slowly. I try to focus on the bridge of his nose, the safest place to look at people to give them the impression you’re looking them in the eye even when you’re not. However, Dr. Hawkins has no safe zones on his body. I can’t look at him anywhere without physically reacting with a flushed face and racing heart because, if my intuition is right (50/50 chance), I think he enjoys looking at me too. So I keep my focus on my soup, tonguing my teeth to make sure I don’t have parsley stuck between them.
My luck involves miscommunication catastrophes. I think he likes looking at me, but really I just have shit between my teeth—these kinds of miscues.
“Did you eat lunch already?” I ask between sips of soup.
“Yes. I have lunch with my mom on Fridays.” He nods across the street. “She works in that building. I get her favorite salad and take it to her.”
I squint at the building—another medical building. “What does she do?”
“She’s a psychiatrist.”
I nod and swallow. “Talk doctor.”
He grins before bringing his red mug to his lips, still balancing in his squatted position. “Yes, she’s a talk doctor.” Dr. Hawkins clears his throat. “Listen. I just wanted to set something straight. The phone number in the card wasn’t for a babysitter.” He shakes his head, glancing down at the grass between us. “It was because I thought it might be a good idea if I bought you dinner. And I should have just came out and asked if I could buy you dinner, but instead, I put the number in the card and found myself fumbling for the right words … like I am now.” He rubs a hand down his face and whispers to himself, “Jeez, Eli …”
“No!” I set the rest of my soup in my lunchbox because there’s no way I’ll finish it before I need to get back to work. It’s laughable that Dr. Warren thought we could have sex and have time for me to eat my lunch in thirty minutes. “I know you think I shouldn’t have bought you those things … that I shouldn’t have spent the money on you, but I’m financially okay. Really. So please don’t think you need to buy me food. I just went to the store last night. Fridge is fully stocked. Definitely no need to buy me dinner. But thanks anyway.”
Dr. Hawkins drops his head, giving it a slight shake while running his hands through his messy, dirty blond hair. It’s not a new gesture. I seem to bring out that reaction in a lot of people.
Missed cues.
Misunderstandings.