My wife and I are off,
a nicely wrapped box of chocolates in tow,
to visit a friend in hospital
who just had surgery for a foot infection.
With a whoosh, the opening of
the automatic doors announces
our arrival into the hospital lobby.
Surprised, we find our friend sitting there
in his pyjamas, ensconced on a grey couch,
eyes nervously darting until, alighting on us,
he gives us a wide smile.
He gets up and limps toward us,
one foot slippered, the other thickly bandaged.
We shake hands. “How are you?” I say.
“Pretty good,” he says as I notice his glance
shift to somewhere over my shoulder
in the direction of the front doors.
We shepherd him back to the couch,
urging him to rest his foot.
After some forced small talk,
our friend abruptly rises, stating
that he must make a phone call.
He leaves for a minute, returning
with a pained expression that I
assume has nothing to do with his foot.
He starts to pace.
Again we implore him to sit.
He looks at us as though
that were the most unreasonable
request in the world and says he has to leave.
He snatches a coat that’s
sprawled on the couch arm and
quickly hobbles toward the doors
with a determined gait — a man on a mission.
Calling over his shoulder, he thanks us for coming.
The doors open then close behind him,
shutting him into the night.
We remain frozen on the couch, bewildered
that this “sick person” has abandoned us
for some clandestine rendezvous.
Meanwhile, I am becoming mesmerized
by the constant stream of doctors, nurses,
patients and visitors inexorably
criss-crossing the lobby.
A tiny throb starts at my right temple.
I rub my eyes. “I don’t feel too good,” I say.
My wife reaches for her left elbow.
“This weather makes my bones ache,” she says.
Unwrapping the box of chocolates, she takes one,
then offers me the box.
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