**The Third Attempt**
Joan slipped into her white coat, sat at her desk, and leaned back in the chair. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself and get into work mode. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. *Who’s there now?* she sighed inwardly. *They won’t even give me a moment to breathe, barging in like this—*
She didn’t answer, but the door cracked open anyway. A man’s face appeared in the gap.
“May I?”
Joan gave him a stern look.
“Appointments start at two,” she said crisply, pretending to read an important document.
A minute later, she glanced back at the door. The man’s head was still poking through.
“I already told you—” she began irritably, but he didn’t budge.
“Actually, it *is* two,” he replied, nodding toward the clock hanging between the windows.
Joan checked. The hour hand sat squarely on twelve. Time to begin. Her already sour mood darkened further.
“Come in,” she sighed.
The door swung wider as the man stepped inside. She assessed him with a practiced eye while he walked toward her desk. Clearly not a patient—fit, well-groomed, healthy. No trace of discomfort on his open face.
“Surname?” she asked, reaching for the stack of cards in the corner.
“Wilson. John Wilson.”
The man sat down, leaning back casually, elbow resting on the desk. His posture annoyed her. *Makes himself right at home, doesn’t he?*
She found his slim file—just two notes from the optician.
“What brings you here?” she asked flatly, ready to dismiss him.
“Can’t sleep, Doctor. I yawn all day at work, but the second I lie down, I’m wide awake. Or I doze off, then wake up and toss till dawn.”
“How long has this been happening?”
“Two months now. Since my wife came back. Walked out with her lover, and just when I’d settled, she returns. Can’t exactly kick her out—we’ve got a daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for an X-ray and some tests. Come back once they’re done.”
“Do I really need all that?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“You barely visit the clinic, never had a check-up, correct? It’s standard procedure—once a year at least.”
“And then I see you again? What about the insomnia?” he asked, flipping through the referrals.
“Remove the stress. Leave your wife. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Easy to say. Our flat’s tiny—can’t swap it. She won’t leave willingly, and there’s my daughter. My parents are gone. Can’t rent at my age. Why should I? Just prescribe something, and I’ll be on my way.”
Reluctantly, Joan pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled a mild sleeping pill.
“You single? Not married, I mean? You don’t look so great—problems too?” he suddenly asked.
Her pen froze. *Who does he think he is?*
“None of your business,” she snapped.
“Just asking kindly. Doctors get ill too. Husband left you?”
She wanted to say—yes, a decade ago. Found someone younger, walked out, left her with three kids. The eldest was gone now, working in Germany, married, no plans to return. A programmer, just like his father. He’d poisoned the boy’s mind—couldn’t emigrate himself, so he pushed his son.
Her daughter had moved to London last year, stayed for good. And the youngest? Lived with her until recently. But her hope for companionship in old age had crumbled. Her daughter lured him away—*nothing for you here, Mum*. That morning, despite her protests, he’d left. No one thought of her. Fifty years old, staring down retirement and loneliness. No friends left, no parents—no one to confide in.
Joan snapped back to the present.
“Here’s your prescription. Get those tests done.” She slid the paper toward him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it—but didn’t move.
“Anything else? If not, don’t hold up the queue.” She nodded toward the door.
“Right. Cheers, then.” At last, he stood and walked out. Glanced back. Joan hadn’t looked away in time.
An elderly woman shuffled in next—the kind who treated the clinic like a social club, ready to chat about her ailments like old friends…
Only as she hung up her coat that evening did Joan remember the empty flat waiting for her. Despair washed over again. She bit her lip, stifling tears, and stepped out into the cold.
“Joan?”
She turned. Wilson—her first patient today—stood there.
“Thought I’d… Well, you looked so sad earlier. Saw it plain as day. Didn’t fancy going home either.”
Her shock must have shown.
“What gave you that idea?” she said sharply.
“Come off it. I know a thing or two about life—and women. Not all like my wife. Fancy a coffee? Just a chat, nothing else. I’ve thought about you all day. Don’t get me wrong, but meeting you… you’re the sort I’ve always dreamed of. Lovely to look at, just… too sad.”
She said nothing. Debating how to refuse politely.
“Trying to think of a nice way to tell me to sod off? Fine—walk proud back to your loneliness,” he said.
*Cheeky devil*, she thought.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
He talked about the weather, the coming winter, while she walked beside him, certain this was foolish. More disappointment waiting.
But the coffee—rich, fragrant—lifted her spirits. Wilson told jokes, silly stories, coaxing a laugh from her at last. Then a bottle of wine appeared. Why not? It warmed her, inside and out. The future seemed less bleak. And him? More appealing by the minute.
She didn’t realise she’d confessed about her son—the morning’s argument, his departure. The pointlessness of it all. Grandchildren? Yes, in Germany—she’d never met them. A tear escaped before she dabbed it away.
Later, unsteady, leaning on his arm, she left the café. Dark now, pavement glistening. A taxi waited—how had he called it? No matter. She just wanted sleep.
The cold air cleared her head. At her doorstep, she said goodbye, ignoring the hope in his eyes. Not tonight.
Next day, he stood outside the clinic with a huge bouquet. No one had given her flowers in years—Mother’s Day didn’t count, just empty tradition.
“Courting me?” She glanced at the building. Gossip fodder. “Don’t.” She walked away.
“Did I offend you?” He kept pace, blooms in hand.
“Leave me alone.” She stopped abruptly. He bumped into her.
“Take the flowers, at least.”
She fixed him with a warning look and hurried off, leaving him bewildered.
Days passed. No sign of him. But each evening, leaving work, she hoped. On the fifth day, he waited—no flowers this time.
“Listen, I don’t want a relationship. Find someone younger.”
“Don’t want anyone else,” he said, matching her tone. His misery tugged at her.
Today he was quiet, no jokes. They walked silently to her flat. At the door, he kissed her—soft, tender. Before she could react, he pulled back. She stepped inside. 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 roared. “Not coming?” She turned as he appeared—a bright bouquet already in a vase, tea brewing.
“Cosy here,” he said, sitting.
“Expecting to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.
He swallowed.
“Well… Are you against it?”
She studied him, then laughed. He stood, kissed her again—not chaste this time, but deeper, hungrier.
Her body betrayed her, leaning in. How long since she’d been kissed? Not unpleasant—quite the opposite. Later… he stayed till morning.
She meant to say she didn’t believe him, didn’t want fleeting romance. He’d go back to his wife—they always did. Even her husband had returned, but she’d shut the door. Love? A fairy tale, especially this late. Yet she stayed silent.
He vanished again. She watched for him outside work, fighting tears. Then—there he stood by her flat. Her heart leapt.
“Dad had my daughter—couldn’t leave her. Missed you.”
She loved his snoring, his warmth in bed, the weight of his arm draped over her.
*Falling for him? Marrying?* her inner voice mocked.
*Why not? I like waiting up, washing his shirts, cooking… Women lie, saying they don’t. But he hasnThey grew old together, hand in hand, proving happiness was never bound by time.
