I close my eyes and wait for it to begin.
Alexis and WineBar #9
It was the most amazing of times.
But scary at the same time.
WineBar had two bars in Miami. He traveled there every other week.
When he was in town, he fucked me like it was the first time he met me.
But when he was gone, I tried to find ways to distract myself.
I went to the spa. I spent time with my parents. I babysat for my aunt.
But there was a hole in my heart.
And no amount of FaceTime was able to fill it.
It got worse the closer we got.
He missed my friends’ birthdays where we were invited as a couple.
He missed my book launch parties.
He missed the time Victoria’s Secret had a Memorial Day sale.
So I sat him down when he was in town.
I told him I couldn’t do this long distance thing if he didn’t find a place to settle down. But he couldn’t phone in a relationship from Miami.
He looked at me and told me he’d have a solution in a few days.
He loved me.
It was on his face. In his words.
And now it would be in his actions.
Samantha
“Jesus, Sam. You look like you slaughtered a whole army by yourself.”
“I’ll take as a compliment,” I sigh as I take off my disposable gloves, both of them covered in fresh blood. I throw them into the bin and then I take off my surgical cap and shake my head, freeing my hair and allowing it to cascade down my shoulders.
I look down at my scrubs—blood stains everywhere—and sigh again. Another perfectly good uniform ruined. It’s the second this month.
Oh, well, nobody said that being a surgeon would be easy.
“How did it go?” Mary asks me, leaning against the room door and cocking one eyebrow at me. “You kicked ass, right?”
“Damn right I did,” I reply, finally allowing a smile to creep up on my lips. Being a surgeon is demanding—I’ve been at work for close to fourteen hours now—but it’s all worth it when, at the end of the day, you know you made a difference in someone’s life.
“That’s my girl!” Mary squeals, holding her hand up in the air. I high-five her, run one hand through my hair, and glance at my wristwatch. It’s ten p.m. already, which means my shift ended about two hours ago.
“What do you say we grab a drink and celebrate?” Mary asks me.
“I don’t know if it’s fitting to celebrate an open-hearted surgical procedure over drinks,” I tell her, praying to God that she doesn’t go on another one of her tirades: Oh, Sam, live it up—you’re twenty-eight, no boyfriend, you don’t drink, you don’t party, yada yada.