I don’t eat meat. Cheese is my drug of choice. (living cow emoji, cheese emoji, smiley face emoji)
If you and Roman like meat, maybe consider balls instead of a meat sauce. (eggplant emoji) LOL. (wink emoji)
My humor isn’t everyone’s taste, but I feel a connection to Dr. Hawkins, like maybe he might appreciate it.
I’m not great at picking out wine, but I could bring the sauce. (spaghetti emoji, tomato emoji, high-five emoji)
Something not too spicy—for Roman. (high-five emoji)
JK about the wine. Ice water is great. (water emoji, high-five emoji)
It’s a lot of high-five emojis, which is great if he likes that emoji. But what if he doesn’t? Then I’m the girl obsessed with high-five emojis. And while I know it isn’t a date, I like him enough to care what he thinks of me.
Which is why I need to handle the spaghetti situation in the most neurotypical way possible.
Face-to-face.
Forcing eye contact.
Reciting my words just as I’ve practiced them.
I want to help him out with Roman. I just don’t want to seem ungrateful for his efforts if the meal involves a meaty, chunky, spicy sauce.
“Dr. Hawkins!” I chase him out the door just before 7:00 p.m. He gets off an hour before me. Lucky.
He turns, a grin immediately finding his lips. It plunges into a flat line as he looks over my shoulder. “Is she your patient?”
I know who has his attention—Layne Gibson and her possible concussion from a gymnastics accident. We were on our way back to her room when I saw Dr. Hawkins leaving for the day.
“No. I don’t have patients. She’s Dr. Freeman’s patient.”
“Waiting in the atrium for you. Did you abandon her? I think that’s a big rule. Don’t ever leave a patient unattended in a wheelchair.”
“Gary’s watching her. If she looks like she’s about to puke, he’ll give me a heads-up.”
“Who’s Gary?” Dr. Hawkins cocks his head to the side.
“Security guard.”
“Why don’t you get Dr. Freeman’s patient where she’s supposed to be and call me when you get off work?”
“I can’t. That’s why I ran after you. If what I have to say could be said over the phone, then of course I would have just called you. Not really. I would have texted you.”
His focus stays glued to Layne. “Make it quick.”
“I’m a vegetarian.” By some miracle, I manage to hold back the full vomit—my love of cheese, meatballs verses meat sauce, and tomato chunks.
His attention shifts to me, and the smile returns. “That’s what you couldn’t say over the phone or in a text?”
I nod. “See … I’m smiling.” I point to my face. “I still want to come to dinner. I’ll bring my own sauce if it makes things easier. Or even plain spaghetti is great. If you have parmesan cheese, I’ll put that on it. I love cheese. God … I love it so much. All dairy really. I just didn’t want you to mistake me for a vegan.”
He blinks so many times, I start counting them. By ten, he slides his key fob from his pocket. “Get back to work, Dorothy. I won’t feed you the hog.”
“Not just pork!” I call as he turns, heading toward his car. “Beef. Poultry. Fish …”
It didn’t go as planned. I hate when things play out one way in my head and another way in reality. One of my many special gifts involves either giving zero shits about something or completely obsessing with a laser fixation on whatever catches my attention. I’m easily distracted one minute, and the next the world could be ending, but if I have something to say to someone, the world will just have to end.
Yes, by thirty I have a solid grip on my personality traits even if I don’t get why some of them seem so odd to everyone else. It’s the difference between empathy and sympathy—imagining and experiencing. Under certain non-threatening situations, I can look at myself with a small percent of objectivity, but it’s not a superpower that changes my thoughts or actions.
I should have texted him. Instead, he’s driving off while I have ten more emoji faces to express and a half dozen high fives.
* * *
During the last hour of work, everything intensifies to a degree I haven’t experienced in years. All of my coping mechanisms for dealing with sensory overload fail me. Flickering lights in the hallways, excessive chattering, Dr. Overton’s bag of spring rolls sending bile up my throat, the contour of my new shoes rubbing just below my ankle, a fraction off