poured out before bed
“Dear GOD, what is he wearing?”
My colleague – a lanky young man with a strong interest in plastic surgery – elbows me sharply, stares unabashedly at another medical student as he hangs his coat and makes his way to the computer bank where we are seated waiting for clinic to begin.
“OH…oh Mullberry. Look at that tie.”
I look. It’s a tie. Slightly shiny. An understated pattern. English knot. Length appropriate. No unslightly stains. Matches his shirt and pants.
Yep. Just your garden variety tie.
“Did he even look at himself in the mirror before he left?”
I sneak another peek. Clean shaven. Hair styled. All articles of clothing ironed, tucked and belted where necessary. Well laundered.
Again, I see nothing worth noting.
I turn to my computer and look up the first patient.
“You’ve got to dress the part, you know?” my deskmate insists, leaning so close I experience a momentary high from his overdone cologne. “He wants to be a plastic surgeon, too. But he looks like an internist.”
He practically spits out that final word. I stare at the plast-icky fellow next to me.
“Hmm… My husband is an internal medicine resident,” I say with all the sweetness I can muster.
Just then, an attending walks in. We all stand to greet him, though he blows right by us. Future Dr. Spiffy stands just a little too quickly.
In slow motion, the dark roast coffee he carries like an accessory tumbles over the edge of the desk, great drops of nearly black liquid tumbling out in a fantastic stream. Time resumes it’s normal speed, and the tip of a particularly smart tie, a pair of platinum pants, designer socks, and expensive wing tips stand soaked and soiled.
“Poor form,” I say, clapping him on the back, smiling.