The doctor’s deft hands worked the thread and needle like an expert seamstress, sewing up the portions of my muscles that had been torn apart in the accident. I had been injected with a local anesthetic, so I felt no pain when she treated my injured arm like a piece of cloth.
“The sight of blood frightens you?” she asked me as she wiped my sewn wound with a cotton dabbed in antiseptic.
“A little. One doesn’t get his arm ripped apart revealing the insides every day,” I remarked. Now that the painkillers had started to have their effect, I could notice other things besides my agony. I noticed that she had beautiful brown eyes.
“Aha, but then I thought your generation was fond of movies like Saw and Hostel,” she said as she took her rubber gloves off and washed her hands in the sink.
The words ‘your generation’ struck me as absurd. The doctor was hardly in her late twenties. I was nineteen. We were not exactly from two different generations!
“Why do doctors wash their hands when they already have rubber gloves for protection?” I asked her casually as I waited for her to finish her ablutions.
She turned around and smiled. Yes, she was pretty. A little too pretty in fact. The kind of pretty that would make a patient wish for frequent injuries and infections.
“Google it,” she replied as she picked up a small white towel and rubbed her hands dry.
“The sight of blood frightens you?” she asked me as she wiped my sewn wound with a cotton dabbed in antiseptic.
“A little. One doesn’t get his arm ripped apart revealing the insides every day,” I remarked. Now that the painkillers had started to have their effect, I could notice other things besides my agony. I noticed that she had beautiful brown eyes.
“Aha, but then I thought your generation was fond of movies like Saw and Hostel,” she said as she took her rubber gloves off and washed her hands in the sink.
The words ‘your generation’ struck me as absurd. The doctor was hardly in her late twenties. I was nineteen. We were not exactly from two different generations!
“Why do doctors wash their hands when they already have rubber gloves for protection?” I asked her casually as I waited for her to finish her ablutions.
She turned around and smiled. Yes, she was pretty. A little too pretty in fact. The kind of pretty that would make a patient wish for frequent injuries and infections.
“Google it,” she replied as she picked up a small white towel and rubbed her hands dry.
