Sincere writer. Looking for critique, longs walks on the beach. Maybe more.

LegacyUser

“Well I’ve checked your chart over and over.”

He pauses briefly before lifting the first page of my chart again and quickly glancing at it. As far as I can see, he has no reason for doing this other than to illustrate the phrase 'over and over.'

"It's odd," he continues, "but I can't seem to find anything wrong with you." I find this slightly troubling. I mean, he's the doctor. He's the one with the machine-like brain. And the brainy machines. He'd damn well better start knowing whats wrong with me. Or at the very least a comprehensive list of what's right with me. Some medical flattery. Very healthy pattern of bowel movements. Very slender calves. The hands of a swimmer. That sort of thing.

"You mean besides the fact that there's blood coming from one of my major orifices." I'm happy with this reply. I want the doctor to feel my passive aggressive unhappiness. I briefly consider dropping the passsive element of my aggression and hitting the doctor across the face with his office phone. That's just the kind of guy I am. My psychiatrist will tell you that. Well he won't with confidentiality and all that, but I've told you now. You would have found out sooner or later. I don't often hit people with phones. But I think it about it more than a qualified professional might deem healthy.

He regards me solemnly and then continues, "Hmmmm... Just let me think for a second."

This pleases me. This little hum of his is meant to be an indicator of his being deep in thought. Just to let me know that his big doctor brain is whirring away, joining the dots, subtracting the ones, crossing the T’s, going up the snakes, down the ladders. I hope my chart doesn't have many snakes on it. I calm myself down, reminding myself that if I was going to get a ladder then I would have had to roll a dice.

I consider saying something but I decide against it. And since I didn't feel it worthy of bothering my vocal chords with said thoughts, I will also spare my wrists the labour of relating it now. (If you're very curious, and you're the sort that must know absolutely everything about your characters then I think it had something to do with tea. It may have been t-shirts. I'm not sure - it's hard to keep track of it all really. I'm a very complex guy.)

“Hmmmmm.” He's off again. His humming keeps me entertained though. It fulfils the same purpose as the muzak customer service lines play when you're on hold. I watch the wall, the floor, my shoes. Finally I decide on the floor and settle in to get the best view. (I do keep an eye on the wall though, just in case anything good happens. I can always watch my shoes at home.)

"Hmmmmm."

The noise he's making is warm and and feels, in an odd way, pregnant. As inappropriate as it would be at this moment, the sound of the doctors voice feels like it’s dripping in sexual gratification. His humming is pregnant with the sort of pleasure which would, in ninety-nine percent of normal human beings, usually precede the initial stages of a pregnancy. Seriously this guy is a doctor and he can’t even figure out the difference between a hum with a tone of sexual abandon and one of analytic concern. If this was customer service muzak he'd be far from classical. He’s the muzakal equivalent of seventies funk.