**The Third Attempt**
Joan slipped into her white coat, settled at her desk, and leaned back in her chair. Closing her eyes, she tried to steady herself, to shift into work mode. A knock at the door. “Who on earth now?” she thought with a sigh. “No patience at all—won’t even let a woman collect her thoughts before barging in.”
When she didn’t answer, the door creaked open, and a man’s face peeked through the gap.
“May I?”
Joan fixed him with a stern look.
“Consultation begins at two o’clock,” she declared crisply, pretending to study an important document.
A moment later, she glanced sideways—the man’s head still hovered in the doorway.
“I’ve already told you—” she began irritably, but he didn’t retreat.
“It *is* two,” he said, nodding toward the clock hanging between the two windows.
Joan checked the time. The hour hand had indeed reached twelve. Time to begin. Her already foul mood darkened further.
“Come in,” she relented with a sigh.
The man stepped inside, and Joan assessed him with a practised eye as he approached. Definitely not unwell. Trim, well-groomed, with a healthy glow—no trace of suffering on his broad, open face.
“Name?” She reached for the stack of files at the corner of her desk.
“Harrison. Thomas Edward.”
He settled into the chair opposite, lounging back with his elbow resting on the desk. The posture annoyed her. “Making himself right at home,” she thought.
She located his slim file—just two notes from the optician.
“What brings you here?” she asked, preparing to dismiss this perfectly healthy patient.
“Can’t sleep, Doctor. At work, I yawn all day—the second I lie down, I’m out like a light. But nights? Wide awake. Or I doze off, then wake at three and toss till morning.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two months. Since the wife came back. Ran off with another man, just as I’d settled into peace—then she waltzed back. Can’t even kick her out—we’ve a daughter.”
“Spare me the details.” She scribbled out referrals. “Get these tests done, then return.”
“Must I?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“You rarely visit the surgery, haven’t had a check-up in years, correct? Consider this overdue. And insomnia?” She slid the papers toward him. “Remove the stress. Leave her. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Gladly—but where would I go? Our flat’s tiny, no chance to swap. She won’t leave voluntarily, and there’s the child. My parents are gone. Can’t rent at my age—why should I? Just prescribe something, eh?”
Reluctantly, Joan pulled out a prescription pad.
“Unattached, are you?” he suddenly asked. “You look worn down—troubles of your own?”
Her pen stilled. “What business is it of yours?”
“Just wondering. Doctors get ill too. Husband leave you?”
She nearly said it—yes, a decade ago. Found himself a younger woman, vanished, leaving her with three children. The eldest had flown the nest, moved to Switzerland for work, married, no plans to return. A programmer, like his father. The man had poisoned the boy’s mind—failed to emigrate himself but pushed his son out.
Her daughter had gone last year, chasing opportunity in London. The youngest had stayed—until recently. Her hope for companionship in old age had crumbled. Her daughter had lured the boy away. “Nothing for you here,” she’d said. That very morning, deaf to Joan’s protests, he’d gone. No one thought of *her*. Fifty now, staring down retirement—and loneliness. No friends left, no parents, no one to complain to.
She shook herself back to the present.
“Your prescription. And do those tests.” She nudged the paper toward him.
“Thanks.” He took it but didn’t rise.
“Anything else? If *not*, others are waiting.” She gestured to the door.
“Right. Cheers, then.” Finally, he stood. At the door, he glanced back—Joan hadn’t looked away in time.
An elderly woman shuffled in next, one of those who treated the surgery like a social club, her ailments a beloved topic of conversation…
Only as Joan hung up her coat that evening did the empty flat loom before her. Desolation washed over her again. She bit her lip hard, swallowed the tears, and stepped outside.
“Joan?”
She turned. Harrison—her first patient that morning—stood there.
“Been thinking… Saw such sadness in your eyes. Trouble at home? Plain as day. I’ve no desire to go back either.”
Was she that transparent?
“What gave you that idea?” she snapped.
“Come off it. I know a thing or two about life—and women. Not all are like my wife. Fancy a coffee? Just a chat. Spent all day thinking about you. Don’t misunderstand—but seeing you today, I thought—*this* is the woman I’ve dreamed of. Lovely to look at, if only you weren’t so sad.”
Joan hesitated, searching for a polite way to send him packing.
“Thinking how to ditch me? March proudly back to solitude?” He grinned.
*Insufferably perceptive*, she thought.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
He chattered about the weather, the coming winter. Joan walked beside him, certain this was foolish—another disappointment waiting to happen.
But fragrant coffee lifted her spirits. Harrison spun amusing tales, cracked jokes, coaxing laughter from her. Then a bottle of wine appeared. Why not? It warmed her, inside and out. The melancholy dissolved. The future seemed less bleak. And the man across the table grew more appealing by the minute.
Without realizing, she confessed the morning’s fight with her son, his departure. The pointlessness she felt. Grandchildren? Yes, in Switzerland—she’d never met them. Under Harrison’s sympathetic gaze, a tear escaped. She dabbed it away hastily.
Later, swaying slightly, she leaned on his arm as they left. The pavement glistened with rain. A taxi waited—when had he called it? No matter. She longed for bed.
Cool air cleared her head. At her door, she bid him goodnight, though she saw hope in his eyes. Not a chance.
Next day, he stood outside the surgery, flowers in hand. No one had brought her blooms in years—Mother’s Day didn’t count; that was duty, not desire.
“Courting me?” She glanced back at the building. Gossip fodder. “Don’t.” She strode off.
“Offended you?” He kept pace, bouquet outstretched.
“Leave me alone.” She halted abruptly; he nearly collided with her.
“At least take the flowers.”
A warning glare sent him stumbling back. She walked away, leaving him bewildered.
Days passed without him. Had she offended him? Yet each evening, exiting the surgery, she hoped to see him. On the fifth day, he waited—empty-handed.
“Listen, I don’t want… Don’t come again. Find someone younger.”
“Don’t want anyone else.” His tone matched hers. He looked so wretched, pity stirred in her.
That evening, he was subdued, no jokes. They walked to her flat in silence. At the door, he kissed her—soft, tentative—before pulling away. She hadn’t reacted in time. His lips were warm. She entered the building; he followed.
*What am I doing?* she wondered in the lift.
In the hallway, he hesitated.
“Wear my son’s slippers,” she said, moving to the kitchen. The kettle hissed. “Well? Don’t just stand there.”
He appeared in the doorway. A bright bouquet sat in a vase; the table was set.
“Cosy here,” he murmured, taking a seat.
“Expecting to sleepAnd in the quiet years that followed, they found solace in each other’s company, proving that love, once given a third chance, could bloom even in the autumn of life.
