The Feeling is Mutual
*quot;It was nice to see you too, Mrs. Smith, and I will definitely tell my Mama you asked about her,*quot; I crooned, guiding one of my many little, old ladies towards the exit of my practice. I hope she can't smell the alcohol I'm sweating out, but honestly, she's a vintage Southerner. She'd never point out something like that.
Mrs. Smith continued, *quot;I always look forward to this appointment. You're just the most wonderful young man with the best manners.*quot;
*quot;Well, thank you, Mrs. Smith. I am hardly a young man any longer, but I do appreciate the compliment.*quot;
It's Friday. I'm hungover. I haven't gotten laid in weeks. WEEKS. This moment feels like hell. I need to be finished walking this patient out (Why am I even doing this?), get my keys, and hit the Waffle House, maybe even a nap in my car. I am not going to make it like this.
I'm pretty sure Mrs. Johnson was still talking when I closed her passenger side door. I pretended not to notice and backed away, smiling and waving.
Jogging past the front desk, I let our receptionist know that I'm heading out for a long lunch.
*quot;I have some things to do, so I'll be gone a while,*quot; I mumble distractedly.
*quot;Well, I hate to tell you this, but you still have one appointment before lunch,*quot; Sarah laughs.
Sarah is the receptionist. Sarah is in her twenties and does not get hangovers, and I don't think she really hates to tell me that. I hate Sarah right now.
*quot;No fucking way!*quot; I bark.
*quot;Yep. And here she comes,*quot; Sarah said, raising her eyebrows and cutting her eyes to the door.
I don't even bother to look. I turn on my heel and head for my office. I have to get a Coke and something to eat. I don't care who she is.
The second gulp of full-test Coke starts to slow the tremble in my hands. Jerky. Peanut butter
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