| Romance Fiction posted March 27, 2016 |
  |
Romance during a Protest Rally
Thou Protests Too Much
by RodG
Unexpected Romance Contest Winner
"Union Station's coming up. Alex. Put your books in your back-pack, and zip up your jacket. You might also want to pull down your cap. It's going to be windy."
My nine-year-old nephew reluctantly yanked his eyes away from the window and obeyed. The hundreds of unmoving freight cars in the train yard we were passing had him mesmerized.
Minutes later we pushed our way through the throngs and up to Canal Street where a few CTA buses idled. We boarded none, but continued walking.
A gust of wind nearly blew Alex's hat off. He laughed.
"Where's UIC, Uncle Rob?" His brown eyes sparkled.
"West," I said, stuffing my frost-bitten hands into my jeans. "What direction is that?"
He blinked at the glare from above and pointed. "Follow the sun!"
"Right," I laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
This kid made me proud in so many ways. He was a bright student, a great athlete, and my good buddy. His mother had called me at daybreak to ask a favor.
"Alex has an important meet today, but I couldn't get off work to take him, and Jeff is at a sales meeting in the Quad Cities. I--I don't know what your schedule is these days, but can you take him, Rob?"
Yeah, I could because I was still on disability leave. My condition was a touchy subject in my family. I'm a thirty-year-old cop, or was one, until I got shot in the back during a training maneuver with my S.W.A.T. team. For the last eight months I'd been more-or-less homebound with little to occupy my time except hours of rehab on rented equipment. I felt trapped in an old man's body.
I could walk again, but not without pain. Because I'd always been a super-hero to Alex, I left my cane at home and vowed not to limp.
Fortunately, he had a swimmer's shoulders I could lean upon. Today he would compete in the fifty-meter butterfly at a major age-group meet. If his heat time was low enough, he'd swim at Nationals in Sarasota, Florida.
My steady stride and lack of pain surprised me. We got to the University of Illinois campus in only twenty minutes, but I had no idea where the pool was. The map I'd downloaded was useless, and only one student I asked could give us directions.
After checking in, I left Alex with his coach and plodded up to the balcony seating filled mostly with cheering family members like me. I watched a few exciting free-style sprints, two with photo finishes. Then Alex appeared on the block above lane six. I heard a garbled voice announce the competitors, then "Ready . . . set . . ." and a gun roared. Alex leaped into the pool, bobbed up like a dolphin, and led from start to finish, qualifying with a personal best time. I watched another race or two until he reappeared, dressed and grinning from ear to ear. Around his neck hung a huge medal.
Outside again, we started to retrace our route to Union Station. We didn't get far. Near the Pavilion, a raucous crowd of political protestors had gathered. Most thrust signs toward us and screamed. Others glared, their voices and gestures belligerent.
With the Illinois primary election only five days away, Donald Trump was expected to appear at a rally at UIC. Today! How could I have forgotten? The mob moved like a giant octopus, its tentacles swarming around us. I tried to retreat. Pulling Alex, I sought an opening or a rabbit's hole to duck into. But curses and shrieks rose from behind me. More signs, more hostiles. Two groups about to converge.
Then police on horseback appeared, shouting at both groups to disperse. They waved batons and used their mounts as bulwarks against the onrushing hordes.
"Uncle Rob, show them your badge!"
I couldn't. It lay on my dresser thirty miles away.
A sign slammed into my wound. Fire ripped through me. I staggered forward, knocking Alex akimbo. I saw flailing limbs . . . heard a scream.
"Alex!" I bellowed.
Desperately, I heaved myself toward his unprotected body. When my knees struck the pavement, I crumbled.
"Stop! That's a boy! You're stepping on him!"
The voice was female, but I couldn't see her through the forest of legs.
The roar of voices did not diminish, but the wave of humanity briefly swung away. Reaching hands pulled Alex from my grasp.
"Can you get up?" that same voice shouted in my ear.
"Uhhh . . . maybe."
Hot current surged through my spine. My eyes bulged. I gagged. Nausea . . . suddenly I was retching. I knelt, bracing myself with scraped hands.
"You dizzy?" The voice hit me full frontal.
I may have nodded.
"Thought so."
Hands cupped my shoulders.
"Relax, let them slump and . . . breathe . . . big breaths . . . yeah, that's right."
I was woozy, but no longer nauseous. As the pain slowly subsided, a blurred shape began to emerge.
I could feel strong hands stabilizing me, but my bleary eyes wouldn't focus. I tried to speak. Couldn't.
"Lots of contusions and abrasions. You're a mess, Mister."
A smaller figure filtered into view. Ripped pants . . . muddy cheeks.
"Alex?"
"Yup. I'm okay, but I lost my medal. They--they stole it."
Another face . . . startling blue eyes . . . peered at me. Pink lips moved.
"He was luckier than you. No injuries."
Keep . . . head . . . still. I remember thinking. But I couldn't, and that face kept spinning.
"Stay here, don't move, and . . . don't worry. I'm taking Alex with me, but we'll be right back."
"Wh--ere--?"
A warm hand touched my cheek. "Trust me, Mister . . . please."
Don't ask me why, but I did. And then they were gone.
* * *
They didn't return until sometime later.
In the interim the mob moved out of sight, but not out of earshot. Whenever someone ranted through a bullhorn, the crowd would boisterously respond, and I'd reel.
If I could keep my back straight, the waves of dizziness would ebb and flow. Averting my eyes from the sun helped; closing them brought back the nausea. Slowly, my head quit wheeling.
Alex and his companion reappeared. Laughing.
I could actually see her clearly. A tall, slender brunette who wore a pink running suit and dazzling white Nikes. She approached cautiously, stared at me, and smiled.
"You look a little better," she laughed, "but not much. That face of yours is banged up, too. Good thing I brought peroxide and cotton."
"She's a doctor, Uncle Rob!" shouted Alex, rushing toward me. "We got pills for you."
"D--doctor?" The word slurred from my dry mouth.
She knelt, quickly brushed off my lips with cotton, and lifted my chin.
"Water, too," she said, holding a bottle she'd just opened. She held it to my lips. "Sip . . . slowly."
Gratefully, I obeyed.
She let me slurp about half before thrusting two different-sized white pills toward me.
"Did you take any meds this morning?"
"N--no."
"Good. Swallow these. One's a pain-killer; the other's a muscle relaxant. They're fast-acting."
As she placed them on my tongue, her smile widened.
"Good boy," she said. "Now, give me those hands."
I did. Less than a minute later, they were disinfected and bandaged.
"I fed your nephew a candy bar and an apple, but you need something a little more substantial. Let's get you to the cafeteria." She pointed over her shoulder at a building maybe a hundred yards away.
"Don't know if--"
"Is he a wimp?" she asked Alex with a smirk.
"No! C'mon, Uncle Rob."
Somehow I pushed myself to my feet without their help, and lurched forward a few steps. Alex grabbed one hand, and the good doctor took the other. I may have limped, but I kept moving. Grinning all the way.
* * *
An hour later, I'd finished a tuna salad sandwich, a pear, and a pint of O.J. We were sitting at a table in the Student Union's cafe. The students around us weren't protestors, and reasonably quiet. As soon as we were seated, Alex started babbling.
"Doctor Favus showed me the clinic and took my temperature. 97.9! That's good, Uncle Rob. She also poked around my stomach and back, but found nothing wrong."
As he spoke, I gave her the once-over, now that I wasn't woozy. Alex's examining physician was a lovely sight for sore eyes. Those blue eyes were framed with dark, arched brows, a regal nose, and a mouth that never stopped smiling.
"Eleni Favus," she said. "Second year resident here at the UIC Medical Center. Lainie to my friends." Her smile, like a spotlight, touched Alex, but lingered on me.
We all jabbered, shared a few life stories, and laughed a lot. When she glanced at her watch, I know I frowned. Eleni noticed.
"My next shift begins in less than an hour. Before meeting you guys, I jogged six miles, so I think I should shower." Her gaze shifted to Alex exclusively. "Patients hate stinky doctors."
He laughed as my heart stutter-fluttered.
"I'm going to call a cab for you two." Her eyes, that smile, was back on me. "No long walks for at least . . . uh . . . let's say three days. And no lifting anything more than ten pounds."
I scowled. "Alex told you about--?"
"Yes." Her smile had faded, and her lips looked like they'd been sutured shut. "Gun shot wounds can be nasty as they get re-infected easily. I--I've seen too many lately."
I didn't argue, but solemnly waited while she used her cell phone.
"Five minutes," she said, still unsmiling. "There are wheel chairs available in that--"
"No . . . you've done . . . enough."
Alex hopped to his feet and yelped, "Can we come see you again, Dr. Favus?"
"I--I don't know, Alex." She may have been speaking to him, but she was looking directly at me. "I don't get a lot of time off because I'm on call three times a week, twelve or fourteen hours a shift."
"And my back may take--" I couldn't finish because Alex looked poleaxed.
Tears welled in his eyes. His fingers grasped air where his medal once hung.
"But you like each other!" he wailed.
I gaped. She laughed. "Yes . . . yes, we do, my young friend."
Then she cupped my face with both hands and said, "Call me . . . soon. Doctor's orders."
* * *
For the first few minutes after our train left Union Station, Alex stared glumly out the window at the freight cars we passed.
He shifted in his seat, and our eyes met.
"Y--you ever going to call her, Uncle Rob?"
I let my lips work their way into a huge grin.
"Three seconds after I get you home, kid. That soon enough?"
"Yeah!" he whooped.
I did, she answered, and . . .
"Union Station's coming up. Alex. Put your books in your back-pack, and zip up your jacket. You might also want to pull down your cap. It's going to be windy."
My nine-year-old nephew reluctantly yanked his eyes away from the window and obeyed. The hundreds of unmoving freight cars in the train yard we were passing had him mesmerized.
Minutes later we pushed our way through the throngs and up to Canal Street where a few CTA buses idled. We boarded none, but continued walking.
A gust of wind nearly blew Alex's hat off. He laughed.
"Where's UIC, Uncle Rob?" His brown eyes sparkled.
"West," I said, stuffing my frost-bitten hands into my jeans. "What direction is that?"
He blinked at the glare from above and pointed. "Follow the sun!"
"Right," I laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
This kid made me proud in so many ways. He was a bright student, a great athlete, and my good buddy. His mother had called me at daybreak to ask a favor.
"Alex has an important meet today, but I couldn't get off work to take him, and Jeff is at a sales meeting in the Quad Cities. I--I don't know what your schedule is these days, but can you take him, Rob?"
Yeah, I could because I was still on disability leave. My condition was a touchy subject in my family. I'm a thirty-year-old cop, or was one, until I got shot in the back during a training maneuver with my S.W.A.T. team. For the last eight months I'd been more-or-less homebound with little to occupy my time except hours of rehab on rented equipment. I felt trapped in an old man's body.
I could walk again, but not without pain. Because I'd always been a super-hero to Alex, I left my cane at home and vowed not to limp.
Fortunately, he had a swimmer's shoulders I could lean upon. Today he would compete in the fifty-meter butterfly at a major age-group meet. If his heat time was low enough, he'd swim at Nationals in Sarasota, Florida.
My steady stride and lack of pain surprised me. We got to the University of Illinois campus in only twenty minutes, but I had no idea where the pool was. The map I'd downloaded was useless, and only one student I asked could give us directions.
After checking in, I left Alex with his coach and plodded up to the balcony seating filled mostly with cheering family members like me. I watched a few exciting free-style sprints, two with photo finishes. Then Alex appeared on the block above lane six. I heard a garbled voice announce the competitors, then "Ready . . . set . . ." and a gun roared. Alex leaped into the pool, bobbed up like a dolphin, and led from start to finish, qualifying with a personal best time. I watched another race or two until he reappeared, dressed and grinning from ear to ear. Around his neck hung a huge medal.
Outside again, we started to retrace our route to Union Station. We didn't get far. Near the Pavilion, a raucous crowd of political protestors had gathered. Most thrust signs toward us and screamed. Others glared, their voices and gestures belligerent.
With the Illinois primary election only five days away, Donald Trump was expected to appear at a rally at UIC. Today! How could I have forgotten? The mob moved like a giant octopus, its tentacles swarming around us. I tried to retreat. Pulling Alex, I sought an opening or a rabbit's hole to duck into. But curses and shrieks rose from behind me. More signs, more hostiles. Two groups about to converge.
Then police on horseback appeared, shouting at both groups to disperse. They waved batons and used their mounts as bulwarks against the onrushing hordes.
"Uncle Rob, show them your badge!"
I couldn't. It lay on my dresser thirty miles away.
A sign slammed into my wound. Fire ripped through me. I staggered forward, knocking Alex akimbo. I saw flailing limbs . . . heard a scream.
"Alex!" I bellowed.
Desperately, I heaved myself toward his unprotected body. When my knees struck the pavement, I crumbled.
"Stop! That's a boy! You're stepping on him!"
The voice was female, but I couldn't see her through the forest of legs.
The roar of voices did not diminish, but the wave of humanity briefly swung away. Reaching hands pulled Alex from my grasp.
"Can you get up?" that same voice shouted in my ear.
"Uhhh . . . maybe."
Hot current surged through my spine. My eyes bulged. I gagged. Nausea . . . suddenly I was retching. I knelt, bracing myself with scraped hands.
"You dizzy?" The voice hit me full frontal.
I may have nodded.
"Thought so."
Hands cupped my shoulders.
"Relax, let them slump and . . . breathe . . . big breaths . . . yeah, that's right."
I was woozy, but no longer nauseous. As the pain slowly subsided, a blurred shape began to emerge.
I could feel strong hands stabilizing me, but my bleary eyes wouldn't focus. I tried to speak. Couldn't.
"Lots of contusions and abrasions. You're a mess, Mister."
A smaller figure filtered into view. Ripped pants . . . muddy cheeks.
"Alex?"
"Yup. I'm okay, but I lost my medal. They--they stole it."
Another face . . . startling blue eyes . . . peered at me. Pink lips moved.
"He was luckier than you. No injuries."
Keep . . . head . . . still. I remember thinking. But I couldn't, and that face kept spinning.
"Stay here, don't move, and . . . don't worry. I'm taking Alex with me, but we'll be right back."
"Wh--ere--?"
A warm hand touched my cheek. "Trust me, Mister . . . please."
Don't ask me why, but I did. And then they were gone.
* * *
They didn't return until sometime later.
In the interim the mob moved out of sight, but not out of earshot. Whenever someone ranted through a bullhorn, the crowd would boisterously respond, and I'd reel.
If I could keep my back straight, the waves of dizziness would ebb and flow. Averting my eyes from the sun helped; closing them brought back the nausea. Slowly, my head quit wheeling.
Alex and his companion reappeared. Laughing.
I could actually see her clearly. A tall, slender brunette who wore a pink running suit and dazzling white Nikes. She approached cautiously, stared at me, and smiled.
"You look a little better," she laughed, "but not much. That face of yours is banged up, too. Good thing I brought peroxide and cotton."
"She's a doctor, Uncle Rob!" shouted Alex, rushing toward me. "We got pills for you."
"D--doctor?" The word slurred from my dry mouth.
She knelt, quickly brushed off my lips with cotton, and lifted my chin.
"Water, too," she said, holding a bottle she'd just opened. She held it to my lips. "Sip . . . slowly."
Gratefully, I obeyed.
She let me slurp about half before thrusting two different-sized white pills toward me.
"Did you take any meds this morning?"
"N--no."
"Good. Swallow these. One's a pain-killer; the other's a muscle relaxant. They're fast-acting."
As she placed them on my tongue, her smile widened.
"Good boy," she said. "Now, give me those hands."
I did. Less than a minute later, they were disinfected and bandaged.
"I fed your nephew a candy bar and an apple, but you need something a little more substantial. Let's get you to the cafeteria." She pointed over her shoulder at a building maybe a hundred yards away.
"Don't know if--"
"Is he a wimp?" she asked Alex with a smirk.
"No! C'mon, Uncle Rob."
Somehow I pushed myself to my feet without their help, and lurched forward a few steps. Alex grabbed one hand, and the good doctor took the other. I may have limped, but I kept moving. Grinning all the way.
* * *
An hour later, I'd finished a tuna salad sandwich, a pear, and a pint of O.J. We were sitting at a table in the Student Union's cafe. The students around us weren't protestors, and reasonably quiet. As soon as we were seated, Alex started babbling.
"Doctor Favus showed me the clinic and took my temperature. 97.9! That's good, Uncle Rob. She also poked around my stomach and back, but found nothing wrong."
As he spoke, I gave her the once-over, now that I wasn't woozy. Alex's examining physician was a lovely sight for sore eyes. Those blue eyes were framed with dark, arched brows, a regal nose, and a mouth that never stopped smiling.
"Eleni Favus," she said. "Second year resident here at the UIC Medical Center. Lainie to my friends." Her smile, like a spotlight, touched Alex, but lingered on me.
We all jabbered, shared a few life stories, and laughed a lot. When she glanced at her watch, I know I frowned. Eleni noticed.
"My next shift begins in less than an hour. Before meeting you guys, I jogged six miles, so I think I should shower." Her gaze shifted to Alex exclusively. "Patients hate stinky doctors."
He laughed as my heart stutter-fluttered.
"I'm going to call a cab for you two." Her eyes, that smile, was back on me. "No long walks for at least . . . uh . . . let's say three days. And no lifting anything more than ten pounds."
I scowled. "Alex told you about--?"
"Yes." Her smile had faded, and her lips looked like they'd been sutured shut. "Gun shot wounds can be nasty as they get re-infected easily. I--I've seen too many lately."
I didn't argue, but solemnly waited while she used her cell phone.
"Five minutes," she said, still unsmiling. "There are wheel chairs available in that--"
"No . . . you've done . . . enough."
Alex hopped to his feet and yelped, "Can we come see you again, Dr. Favus?"
"I--I don't know, Alex." She may have been speaking to him, but she was looking directly at me. "I don't get a lot of time off because I'm on call three times a week, twelve or fourteen hours a shift."
"And my back may take--" I couldn't finish because Alex looked poleaxed.
Tears welled in his eyes. His fingers grasped air where his medal once hung.
"But you like each other!" he wailed.
I gaped. She laughed. "Yes . . . yes, we do, my young friend."
Then she cupped my face with both hands and said, "Call me . . . soon. Doctor's orders."
* * *
For the first few minutes after our train left Union Station, Alex stared glumly out the window at the freight cars we passed.
He shifted in his seat, and our eyes met.
"Y--you ever going to call her, Uncle Rob?"
I let my lips work their way into a huge grin.
"Three seconds after I get you home, kid. That soon enough?"
"Yeah!" he whooped.
I did, she answered, and . . .
My nine-year-old nephew reluctantly yanked his eyes away from the window and obeyed. The hundreds of unmoving freight cars in the train yard we were passing had him mesmerized.
Minutes later we pushed our way through the throngs and up to Canal Street where a few CTA buses idled. We boarded none, but continued walking.
A gust of wind nearly blew Alex's hat off. He laughed.
"Where's UIC, Uncle Rob?" His brown eyes sparkled.
"West," I said, stuffing my frost-bitten hands into my jeans. "What direction is that?"
He blinked at the glare from above and pointed. "Follow the sun!"
"Right," I laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
This kid made me proud in so many ways. He was a bright student, a great athlete, and my good buddy. His mother had called me at daybreak to ask a favor.
"Alex has an important meet today, but I couldn't get off work to take him, and Jeff is at a sales meeting in the Quad Cities. I--I don't know what your schedule is these days, but can you take him, Rob?"
Yeah, I could because I was still on disability leave. My condition was a touchy subject in my family. I'm a thirty-year-old cop, or was one, until I got shot in the back during a training maneuver with my S.W.A.T. team. For the last eight months I'd been more-or-less homebound with little to occupy my time except hours of rehab on rented equipment. I felt trapped in an old man's body.
I could walk again, but not without pain. Because I'd always been a super-hero to Alex, I left my cane at home and vowed not to limp.
Fortunately, he had a swimmer's shoulders I could lean upon. Today he would compete in the fifty-meter butterfly at a major age-group meet. If his heat time was low enough, he'd swim at Nationals in Sarasota, Florida.
My steady stride and lack of pain surprised me. We got to the University of Illinois campus in only twenty minutes, but I had no idea where the pool was. The map I'd downloaded was useless, and only one student I asked could give us directions.
After checking in, I left Alex with his coach and plodded up to the balcony seating filled mostly with cheering family members like me. I watched a few exciting free-style sprints, two with photo finishes. Then Alex appeared on the block above lane six. I heard a garbled voice announce the competitors, then "Ready . . . set . . ." and a gun roared. Alex leaped into the pool, bobbed up like a dolphin, and led from start to finish, qualifying with a personal best time. I watched another race or two until he reappeared, dressed and grinning from ear to ear. Around his neck hung a huge medal.
Outside again, we started to retrace our route to Union Station. We didn't get far. Near the Pavilion, a raucous crowd of political protestors had gathered. Most thrust signs toward us and screamed. Others glared, their voices and gestures belligerent.
With the Illinois primary election only five days away, Donald Trump was expected to appear at a rally at UIC. Today! How could I have forgotten? The mob moved like a giant octopus, its tentacles swarming around us. I tried to retreat. Pulling Alex, I sought an opening or a rabbit's hole to duck into. But curses and shrieks rose from behind me. More signs, more hostiles. Two groups about to converge.
Then police on horseback appeared, shouting at both groups to disperse. They waved batons and used their mounts as bulwarks against the onrushing hordes.
"Uncle Rob, show them your badge!"
I couldn't. It lay on my dresser thirty miles away.
A sign slammed into my wound. Fire ripped through me. I staggered forward, knocking Alex akimbo. I saw flailing limbs . . . heard a scream.
"Alex!" I bellowed.
Desperately, I heaved myself toward his unprotected body. When my knees struck the pavement, I crumbled.
"Stop! That's a boy! You're stepping on him!"
The voice was female, but I couldn't see her through the forest of legs.
The roar of voices did not diminish, but the wave of humanity briefly swung away. Reaching hands pulled Alex from my grasp.
"Can you get up?" that same voice shouted in my ear.
"Uhhh . . . maybe."
Hot current surged through my spine. My eyes bulged. I gagged. Nausea . . . suddenly I was retching. I knelt, bracing myself with scraped hands.
"You dizzy?" The voice hit me full frontal.
I may have nodded.
"Thought so."
Hands cupped my shoulders.
"Relax, let them slump and . . . breathe . . . big breaths . . . yeah, that's right."
I was woozy, but no longer nauseous. As the pain slowly subsided, a blurred shape began to emerge.
I could feel strong hands stabilizing me, but my bleary eyes wouldn't focus. I tried to speak. Couldn't.
"Lots of contusions and abrasions. You're a mess, Mister."
A smaller figure filtered into view. Ripped pants . . . muddy cheeks.
"Alex?"
"Yup. I'm okay, but I lost my medal. They--they stole it."
Another face . . . startling blue eyes . . . peered at me. Pink lips moved.
"He was luckier than you. No injuries."
Keep . . . head . . . still. I remember thinking. But I couldn't, and that face kept spinning.
"Stay here, don't move, and . . . don't worry. I'm taking Alex with me, but we'll be right back."
"Wh--ere--?"
A warm hand touched my cheek. "Trust me, Mister . . . please."
Don't ask me why, but I did. And then they were gone.
* * *
They didn't return until sometime later.
In the interim the mob moved out of sight, but not out of earshot. Whenever someone ranted through a bullhorn, the crowd would boisterously respond, and I'd reel.
If I could keep my back straight, the waves of dizziness would ebb and flow. Averting my eyes from the sun helped; closing them brought back the nausea. Slowly, my head quit wheeling.
Alex and his companion reappeared. Laughing.
I could actually see her clearly. A tall, slender brunette who wore a pink running suit and dazzling white Nikes. She approached cautiously, stared at me, and smiled.
"You look a little better," she laughed, "but not much. That face of yours is banged up, too. Good thing I brought peroxide and cotton."
"She's a doctor, Uncle Rob!" shouted Alex, rushing toward me. "We got pills for you."
"D--doctor?" The word slurred from my dry mouth.
She knelt, quickly brushed off my lips with cotton, and lifted my chin.
"Water, too," she said, holding a bottle she'd just opened. She held it to my lips. "Sip . . . slowly."
Gratefully, I obeyed.
She let me slurp about half before thrusting two different-sized white pills toward me.
"Did you take any meds this morning?"
"N--no."
"Good. Swallow these. One's a pain-killer; the other's a muscle relaxant. They're fast-acting."
As she placed them on my tongue, her smile widened.
"Good boy," she said. "Now, give me those hands."
I did. Less than a minute later, they were disinfected and bandaged.
"I fed your nephew a candy bar and an apple, but you need something a little more substantial. Let's get you to the cafeteria." She pointed over her shoulder at a building maybe a hundred yards away.
"Don't know if--"
"Is he a wimp?" she asked Alex with a smirk.
"No! C'mon, Uncle Rob."
Somehow I pushed myself to my feet without their help, and lurched forward a few steps. Alex grabbed one hand, and the good doctor took the other. I may have limped, but I kept moving. Grinning all the way.
* * *
An hour later, I'd finished a tuna salad sandwich, a pear, and a pint of O.J. We were sitting at a table in the Student Union's cafe. The students around us weren't protestors, and reasonably quiet. As soon as we were seated, Alex started babbling.
"Doctor Favus showed me the clinic and took my temperature. 97.9! That's good, Uncle Rob. She also poked around my stomach and back, but found nothing wrong."
As he spoke, I gave her the once-over, now that I wasn't woozy. Alex's examining physician was a lovely sight for sore eyes. Those blue eyes were framed with dark, arched brows, a regal nose, and a mouth that never stopped smiling.
"Eleni Favus," she said. "Second year resident here at the UIC Medical Center. Lainie to my friends." Her smile, like a spotlight, touched Alex, but lingered on me.
We all jabbered, shared a few life stories, and laughed a lot. When she glanced at her watch, I know I frowned. Eleni noticed.
"My next shift begins in less than an hour. Before meeting you guys, I jogged six miles, so I think I should shower." Her gaze shifted to Alex exclusively. "Patients hate stinky doctors."
He laughed as my heart stutter-fluttered.
"I'm going to call a cab for you two." Her eyes, that smile, was back on me. "No long walks for at least . . . uh . . . let's say three days. And no lifting anything more than ten pounds."
I scowled. "Alex told you about--?"
"Yes." Her smile had faded, and her lips looked like they'd been sutured shut. "Gun shot wounds can be nasty as they get re-infected easily. I--I've seen too many lately."
I didn't argue, but solemnly waited while she used her cell phone.
"Five minutes," she said, still unsmiling. "There are wheel chairs available in that--"
"No . . . you've done . . . enough."
Alex hopped to his feet and yelped, "Can we come see you again, Dr. Favus?"
"I--I don't know, Alex." She may have been speaking to him, but she was looking directly at me. "I don't get a lot of time off because I'm on call three times a week, twelve or fourteen hours a shift."
"And my back may take--" I couldn't finish because Alex looked poleaxed.
Tears welled in his eyes. His fingers grasped air where his medal once hung.
"But you like each other!" he wailed.
I gaped. She laughed. "Yes . . . yes, we do, my young friend."
Then she cupped my face with both hands and said, "Call me . . . soon. Doctor's orders."
* * *
For the first few minutes after our train left Union Station, Alex stared glumly out the window at the freight cars we passed.
He shifted in his seat, and our eyes met.
"Y--you ever going to call her, Uncle Rob?"
I let my lips work their way into a huge grin.
"Three seconds after I get you home, kid. That soon enough?"
"Yeah!" he whooped.
I did, she answered, and . . .
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Writing Prompt The topic for this contest is: Unexpected Romance. The story brings two people together, two people who don't necessarily realize that they belong together but the audience is rooting for them. |
Unexpected Romance Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
The clip-art is courtesy of Google images.
This story and its characters are fiction. However, there was a protest rally at UIC prior to the primary. There was trouble, some violence, and Trump canceled his appearance. That same day there was an age-group swim meet being conducted in the UIC pool.
UIC is the nickname for University of Illinois/Chicago (aka Circle Campus). This is the sister school of the University of Illinois/Champaign-Urbana. UIC is renowned for its medical school and university. Indeed it is located a little more than a mile west of the Loop.
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and 2 member cents. This story and its characters are fiction. However, there was a protest rally at UIC prior to the primary. There was trouble, some violence, and Trump canceled his appearance. That same day there was an age-group swim meet being conducted in the UIC pool.
UIC is the nickname for University of Illinois/Chicago (aka Circle Campus). This is the sister school of the University of Illinois/Champaign-Urbana. UIC is renowned for its medical school and university. Indeed it is located a little more than a mile west of the Loop.
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