by Mileva Anastasiadou
I’d hate Tuesdays if it weren’t for you. Tuesdays are boring until five, when you arrive. Mom thinks I deserve better, yet mom doesn’t count, for that’s what moms always say. The clock’s ticking, she’ll say next, which doesn’t sound as threatening as she’d like, as what comes to mind is that huge clock on the wall, the one I’m staring at right now, counting the time till we meet.
Tick, tock, goes the clock. Knock, knock, who’s there?
Come in please, I say. The guy is tall, his blue eyes wandering, exploring the place, once he comes in. I’m not the patient, he says and then I see another guy entering the room, a bit shorter, reluctantly walking towards me. He looks at me scared, like I’m about to cut him open, like I’m a surgeon, only I’m not, I reassure him but he can’t calm down. I feel important for a while, like I’m here, making someone feel something. Fear is important, but love is better, although I’ll settle for lust – one more look at the clock – in an hour and twenty minutes. He’s breathing fast now, like he’s about to have a panic attack, but his friend, or lover, approaches and holds him down. Then it happens.
It happens and it’s of no importance to them. I’m the only one impressed in the room by the look in the tall guy’s eyes. He’s looking at his friend, or lover, I can’t tell, he’s looking at him, like he’s really there. And I think of your lustful glances, or your greedy hands when you pull me close, and then I see that man, no lust in his eyes, not even a trace of greed in his touch, while he holds the patient’s hand – he’s only a patient to me – and I can’t name that look, I can’t describe the touch, words fail me, my mind fails me, yet I think that’s probably love.
Tick, tock, goes the clock. Knock, knock, who’s there?
I’m surprised at the knock, while I’m taking off my white coat and head to the door. I’m off for the day, no more appointments. Oh no, they say, as they help themselves in and walk my way. Don’t stand up, please, says one of them, while the other approaches me and holds me down. They’re wearing white coats too, only I can’t remember their names. I don’t have time, I tell them kindly, yet they insist. I take another look at the clock and it’s half past four. I can’t afford small talk now. I have to go home I mumble but they don’t notice the urgency, and I yell for them to hear me, only they pretend they don’t hear my words, but I know they do, they only choose to ignore them. They hold me down, but not like that tall guy held down his friend, or lover, they push me instead as if I’m not human, as if I don’t count.
Surprisingly enough, it always happens on Tuesdays, one of them says, while performing an injection. I’m not the patient here, I cry, but they don’t listen.
I’m looking at my hands, wondering how on earth they became so wrinkled, why they feel so heavy, thinking I’m not an elephant, I’m human – I insist – and humans sometimes forget. I take another look at the clock and a sad thought now crosses my mind; it may be too late after all.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres, MoonPark Review, Litro and others. Follow her on Twitter @happymil_ or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/milevaanastasiadou/.
(And don’t miss Mileva’s Urgent Notice, a public service message worth paying attention to! – Elephants Never)