**The Third Try**
Joan slipped into her white coat, settled behind her desk, and leaned back in her chair. She shut her eyes, willing herself to calm down and slip into work mode. Then—a knock. *Who now?* she thought irritably. *No patience, can’t even let me collect myself—*
The door creaked open before she could answer, and a man’s face peered through the gap.
“May I?”
Joan gave him a stern look.
“Appointments start at two,” she clipped, pretending to scrutinise an important document.
A moment later, she glanced back. The man’s head was still there.
“I *just* told you—” she snapped, but he didn’t budge.
“It *is* two,” he said, nodding toward the wall clock between the windows.
She checked. The minute hand hovered at twelve, ready to march on. Time to begin. Her already foul mood soured completely.
“Fine. Come in,” she sighed.
The door swung wider, and the man entered. She assessed him with practised detachment as he approached—nothing like a patient. Trim, well-groomed, a face unmarked by illness.
“Name?” she asked, reaching for a file.
“Tom Hadley.”
He dropped into the chair, sprawling, elbow propped on the desk. Joan bristled. *Making himself right at home.*
She found his slim file—just two notes from the optician.
“What’s the issue?” she asked flatly, already planning how to dismiss him.
“Can’t sleep. Nod off at work, but at night—nothing. Or I wake up and lie there till dawn.”
“How long?”
“Since my wife came back. Left me for some bloke, just as I’d moved on—then she swans back. Can’t kick her out, not with our daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for scans and tests. Come back after.”
“Really? Can’t you just—”
“You never visit the surgery, do you? Yearly check-ups are standard. Consider this yours.”
“And then what? What about the insomnia?” Tom fidgeted with the papers.
“Cut out the stress. Leave her. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Would if I could! Tiny flat, no spare cash. She won’t go, and there’s the kid. My parents are gone—renting at my age? *Why should I?* Just give me pills.”
Reluctantly, Joan pulled out a prescription pad.
“You single? You look rough—troubles of your own?” Tom suddenly asked.
Her pen froze. *The cheek.*
“None of your business,” she snapped.
“Just asking. Doctors get ill too. Husband leave you?”
She nearly spat out that he *had*, a decade ago—vanished with some younger woman, leaving her with three kids. The eldest fled to Canada, married, never looked back. IT work, just like his father. The git had pushed the boy out instead of going himself.
Her daughter had bolted for London last year. And the youngest—well, he’d stuck around until this morning, when he’d ignored her protests and followed his sister. *No future here*, he’d said.
No one thought of *her*. Fifty, staring down retirement and solitude. No friends, no parents—no one to complain to.
Joan snapped back.
“Here’s the prescription. Get the tests done.” She shoved the paper at him.
“Ta.” He took it—but stayed seated.
“Anything else? People are waiting.” She nodded at the door.
“Right. Cheers.” He finally left, but glanced back as he went. She hadn’t looked away fast enough.
An old woman shuffled in next, the sort who treated the surgery like a social club.
——
Later, hanging up her coat, Joan remembered the empty flat waiting. Desolation crashed over her. She bit her lip, swallowing tears, and stepped outside.
“Joan.”
She turned. Tom—her first patient—stood there.
“I was thinking… You’ve got such sadness in your eyes. You’ve got troubles too, haven’t you? I don’t want to go home either.”
She stiffened. *That obvious?*
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered.
“Come off it. I know a thing or two. Not all women are like my wife. Fancy a coffee? Just a chat. I’ve thought about you all day. Not like *that*—but you’re lovely. Just so sad.”
She hesitated, composing a cutting dismissal.
“Trying to think of a polite way to tell me to sod off? You’ll march home to your loneliness?” He grinned.
*Perceptive git.*
“Oh, fine,” she sighed.
He babbled about the weather, winter coming. Joan walked beside him, certain she was being an idiot—inviting fresh disappointment.
But the coffee warmed her. Tom spun silly jokes until she laughed. Then wine appeared. Why not? It glowed in her chest, melting the gloom. The future felt less bleak. The man across the table grew more charming by the minute.
Before she knew it, she was confessing—the fight with her son that morning, his desertion. The pointlessness. Grandkids in Canada she’d never met. A tear slipped out before she dabbed it away.
Later, swaying on his arm, she stumbled from the café. Rain-slick pavement gleamed. A taxi door swung open—when had he called it? No matter. She just wanted bed.
The cold air cleared her head. At her door, she dismissed him firmly, though she saw the hope in his eyes. *Not a chance.*
——
Next day, he loitered outside the surgery with a massive bouquet. No one had given her flowers in years—Mother’s Day didn’t count.
“You’re courting me?” She glanced at the building. *Someone’s watching. Gossip by tomorrow.* “Don’t.” She marched off.
“Offended?” He trailed her.
“Leave me alone.” She spun—he nearly collided with her.
“At least take these.”
She shot him a warning look and hurried away.
——
Days passed. No sign of him. *He’s sulking.* Yet every exit, she hoped to see him.
On the fifth day, he waited—no flowers.
“Listen, I don’t want a fling. Find someone younger.”
“Don’t want anyone else,” he said, so wretched she pitied him.
Quiet today, no jokes. At her door, he kissed her—soft, tentative. She froze. Then he pulled back.
Inside, she pointed to slippers. “Wear those.” The kitchen bloomed with flowers; the kettle roared.
“Cosy here,” he said, sitting.
“Hoping to sleep with me?” she blurted.
Tom gulped.
“Well… You against it?”
She studied him—then laughed. He stood, kissed her properly this time. Her body betrayed her, leaning in. When had she last been kissed?
Later, as he stayed the night, she bit back warnings—*I don’t believe you, you’ll go back to her*—but said nothing.
——
He vanished again. Each day, she scanned the crowd outside work. Then—there he was, at her door. Her heart leapt.
“My daughter was ill. I missed you,” he said.
She loved waking to his snores, his warmth, his arm slung over her. *In love? Marry him?*
*Why not?* she admitted. *I like waiting for him, washing his shirts…*
Six months in, cohabiting in silence, she dreaded *the talk*.
One evening, he slid a ring box across the table.
“Proposing?” She eyed the glittering stone.
“Try it.”
It fit.
“Will you marry me?”
“You’re married,” she said, pulling it off.
“Not anymore. Bought this the day after we met. Waited to be free.”
“I’m fifty—”
“So? Love doesn’t expire. Young love’s all heat. This—this is soul-deep.”
They booked the registry office. No fuss—just sign and go. Joan bought a cornflower-blue dress, hung it carefully. Each morning, she stared at it, disbelieving.
The night before, she cooked a feast.
“Smells amazing,” Tom said, sniffing.
“For tomorrow.”
“What about my stag night? One drink.”
They drank. And drank. The fridge emptied. They stumbled to bed late.
Joan woke to grey light. *Too early.* She rolled over.
The second wake-up came with dread. *Did I leave the oven on?* She checked the clock—and bolted up. The room tilted. She collapsed back.
“Time?” Tom mumbled.
“We’ve missed it.”
The registry office squeezed them in Monday. Colleagues brought gifts, teased about the ring.
“Lost it,” Joan joked, recounting their drunken oversight.
But months later, theyAnd there, beneath the flickering streetlamp outside the registry office, Joan finally let herself believe—in second chances, in late blooms, in the quiet, stubborn joy of a love that had waited its turn.
