Dr. James M. White
You give your wife a good-bye kiss. You don’t feel anything.
You look at her. She has gray roots underneath her platinum-blond hair. Her
tight dress shows off her body. It is larger than it used to be from bearing
your children, but has retained its hourglass shape. You recall the last time
you went out with her to meet up with friends from work. You remember the way a
colleague elbowed you in the side as your wife left the table to get another
drink from the bar. “She’s still got it.” he whispered in your ear.
You stand at the front door of your home, listening to your
children rush down the stairs as they do every morning, because they like to
see you off to work. They run past their mother and up to you, grabbing on to
your body- one on each leg. They look up at you with wide eyes, still gunky
from sleep. “Bye, Dada.” says your son. You stoop down to give him a quick hug,
and you get a whiff of his morning breath. You let him go and grab on to your
daughter, who has a runny nose. After briefly holding your arms around her, you
stand up and walk out the door, accidentally letting the screen door slam shut
behind you.
You drive to work in your 2011 Audi R8. When you first
bought it, you would take your wife for quick joyrides at night once your
children were asleep. Now you just drive it to work and for errands. You drive
into the Mercy Hospital parking garage and pull into the space that is reserved
for you, next to the elevator.
You deliver six babies during your workday. You used to feel
awe in your career, marveling at the fact that besides the womb of the mother,
you were the first human contact the babies you delivered had in their lives.
While you guided an infant into the world, you would think of all the other people
that would guide and support them during their lifetime, and felt a joy and
honor in being the first person in their life to do so. But now when you go to
work, you don’t feel the way you used to. You simply pull the crying babies
from their mothers and hand them away to the nurses, as if you are handing over
a product in an assembly line.
You go to the same coffee shop ever Monday and Wednesday
night after work. You tell your wife you are late on those nights because that
is when you catch up on paperwork. As you drive to the coffee shop and think
about the lie that you told your wife, you think about the lie that you tell
yourself every Monday and Wednesday night. You tell yourself that you go to the
coffee shop because you prefer coffee over alcohol. You tell yourself that you
go to the same place every time because they have the best cup of coffee in the
city. You tell yourself you go to the same place because you like the live
music, the artwork, and the relaxed atmosphere. But you know that what you tell
yourself is not the truth. You know why you go to the same coffee shop every
Monday and Wednesday night. You go, because when you push your way through the
tall glass doors and walk up to the mahogany counter, and the barista named
Anthony with the light-brown eyes looks up from the drink he is making and
smiles at you, it is the first time you feel something special all day.
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