I hated when the doctor was late for dinner. His square jaw and hollow cheeks made me angry, but his eyes and soft hands made me melt.

I felt them a few times, his hands. The first was with a handshake; a welcome into his home. The second was in passing; a mere brush of his hand against my arm in a hurried rush out the door. The third time I had fallen asleep in the library. The doctor found me laying on the rug, surrounded by papers and hardcover novels. I was barely awake when he stood me on my feet and, gently holding my hand, led me out of the library and down the dark hall.

I’m wondering if I should even bother taking this anywhere. Leave a comment or two and let me know if this intrigues you at all, so I know whether or not I should continue with this. Not too sure.

T. DM