3 Jan 2017

Appetitus Interruptus

Today I'm focusing on spending less time thinking about the writing prompt and just smashing the words onto the page. Kind of like dipping a wide paintbrush into a bucket of paint and flicking it forward as hard as you can towards the offending wall. Hopefully this will also translate to a shorter story.


Day 3: a perspective following a character in the career of GP (General Practitioner).


He sat alone at the small table, waiting. She wasn't quite late, but she wasn't early either. He hoped he'd gotten the place right, there was only 1 restaurant called Très Cher in the city. He looked around again to make sure that no one else was wearing a yellow rose in their hair - the agreed "badge". Blind dates were both exciting and a little silly, kind of like being on a pretend CIA mission when you're 10 years old. He felt ridiculously out of practice - I mean, the last time he went on a date was more than a decade ago. He could hear his sister tut-tutting, Damien, if you don't make the time for it, you'll never have the time.
And then there she was: a vision in her long red dress, as beautiful as his colleague had described her. She had the most petite yellow rose brooch he'd ever seen, elegantly pinned behind her ear. It sparkled in the candlelight as she turned to survey the patrons in the small French bistro. He lifted his long-stemmed yellow rose slightly off the table and their eyes locked. She glided over and he fumbled to pull out her chair for her, tussling a little with the maître d' for the honours. A lilting laugh escaped her lips as she cooed, "Now now gentleman, let's play nicely.". She was obviously loving the attention, and he resolved to try to be a little more suave and aloof. "So," she said, a smile creeping into the corners of her lips, "do you think this place does pizza?". 


The rest of the evening was far less intense. He found she had a wicked sense of humour, dry like his, but not as dark. It was going well. He made every effort to prompt her to talk about herself, something all of those "self-help" books had suggested. Needless to say she didn't seem to notice, and if she did, she really didn't mind. He managed to stop himself from analysing her movements, her breathing, the small patch of dermatitis that crept out from under her halterneck before she re-adjusted her dress. You're off the clock, remember? You need to learn how to have a life, how to interact with people in a social manner, not a diagnostic one. He was finding the journey of a recovering workaholic a tough one. I mean, how do you just "switch off" a part of your brain that is tuned to risk assessment and problem-solving? Wait, what did she say? Shit! Why is she looking at me like she's expecting a response?
"I'm so sorry," he said apologetically, "I thought I heard my name and was distracted for a second. You know, cocktail effect?"
"Oh yes, crazy that hey? Gets me every time!" 'Whew' he thought, as she continued, "Well I was just saying, enough about me - what do you do for a living?"
Oh no. Here goes. We've done so well up until now...
At his pause, she lowered her voice and leaned in, whispering "Or are you a secret government agent and if you told me, you'd have to kill me?". He laughed and replied "No, I'm in the medical profession".
"Ooooh, tell me more? What do you do?"
Damn. Why is that never enough? Oh well, I may as well tell her now rather than later. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe she won't...
"I'm a GP" he said, before signalling for the waiter to come over. Maybe if I quickly change the subject to dessert she won't -
"Oh that's exciting! You must encounter all kinds of interesting things every day! You know, I've got this funny patch of skin on my collarbone and I've been meaning to go to the..."

And that was that. Dinner, for him, was over. He turned to the approaching waiter and signalled for the cheque. He would tackle finding the perfect partner, not patient, another day.


[word count: 659/727]

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