**The Third Attempt**
Janice slipped into her white coat, sat at her desk, and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself and shift into work mode. A knock at the door interrupted her. *”Who could that be now?”* she sighed inwardly. *”Impatient as ever—can’t even let me catch my breath.”*
When she didn’t answer, the door nudged open, and a man peered in.
“Mind if I come in?”
Janice gave him a sharp look.
“Clinic hours start at two,” she said curtly, pretending to study an important document.
A moment later, she glanced back. The man was still there.
“I *just* told you—” she began irritably, but he didn’t budge.
“It *is* two,” he said, nodding toward the clock between the windows.
Janice checked it—the minute hand was right on twelve. Time to begin. Her already sour mood darkened further.
“Fine, come in,” she relented.
The door swung wide, and the man stepped inside. She assessed him with a practised eye as he approached. Definitely not a sick patient—trim, well-groomed, healthy glow, no sign of pain on his open face.
“Name?” she asked, reaching for the stack of records.
“Edward Thompson.”
He dropped into the chair, leaning back with his elbow on the desk, as if he owned the place. *”Making himself right at home, isn’t he?”* she thought.
She flipped open his thin file—just two notes from the optician.
“What brings you in?” she asked flatly, already deciding to send this perfectly healthy man packing.
“Doctor, I can’t sleep. At work, I’m yawning all day, but the second I hit the pillow, I’m wide awake. Or I doze off, only to wake up at three in the morning and lie there till dawn.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two months—since my wife came back. She left me for another bloke, and just when I’d adjusted, she waltzed back in. Can’t even kick her out—we’ve got a kid. A daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for an X-ray and blood tests. Come back once they’re done.”
“Do I *have* to?” he asked, genuinely baffled.
“You hardly ever visit the surgery, don’t do your check-ups, do you? Consider this your annual. It’s protocol.”
“And then what? What about the insomnia?” Edward asked, flipping through the stack of referrals.
“Cut the stress. Leave your wife. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Gladly—but *where*? Our flat’s tiny, can’t swap it. She won’t go willingly, and there’s the kid. My parents are gone. Not exactly keen to rent at my age. Why should *I* be the one to leave? Just give me some pills, yeah?”
With a sigh, Janice pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled a mild sleeping aid.
“You single? I mean, not married?” Edward suddenly asked. “You look a bit rough yourself. Problems?”
Her pen froze mid-stroke. *”The cheek of him!”*
“What’s it to you?” she snapped.
“Just asking. Doctors are human too. Husband left you?”
She nearly said yes—ten years ago. Found someone younger, walked out, left her with three kids. The eldest had flown the nest, moved to Canada for work, married, no plans to return. Works in IT, just like his father. *”Brainwashed him,”* she thought bitterly. He’d failed to emigrate himself but pushed the boy to go.
Her daughter had bolted last year—London now, no looking back. The youngest had stayed with her until recently. But her hope for company in old age crumbled when her daughter lured him south. *”No future here,”* she’d said. That morning, despite Janice’s protests, he’d gone. No one spared a thought for her. Fifty years old, staring down retirement and loneliness. No friends, no parents—no one to complain to.
She snapped back to the present.
“Here’s your prescription. Get those tests done.” She slid the paper toward him.
“Cheers,” he said, taking it—but didn’t move.
“Anything else? If not, don’t keep the others waiting.” She nodded at the door.
“Right. Thanks. See you.” Finally, he stood and left—but glanced back. Janice didn’t look away in time.
An elderly woman shuffled in, the type who treated the clinic like a social club, chatting about her ailments like old friends…
As she hung up her coat later, Janice remembered the empty flat awaiting her. Desolation washed over her. She bit her lip, fought back tears, and walked out.
“Janice?”
She turned—Edward, her first patient of the day.
“I’ve been thinking… You’ve got this sadness in your eyes. You’re hurting too, aren’t you? It’s plain as day. I don’t fancy going home either.”
She stiffened. Was it *that* obvious?
“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. I’ve thought about you all day. Don’t get me wrong, but seeing you… I realised you’re the sort of woman I’ve always wanted. You’re lovely—just too sad.”
She stayed silent, hunting for a polite way to tell him to sod off.
“What, figuring out how to brush me off? I’ll go, and you’ll march back to your loneliness?” Edward grinned.
*”Sharp, isn’t he?”* she thought.
“Fine,” she muttered.
He chattered about the weather, the coming winter, while she walked beside him, certain this was a mistake. More disappointment waiting.
But the rich coffee lifted her spirits. Edward cracked silly jokes, trying to make her laugh—and against her will, she did. Then a bottle of wine appeared. Why not? It warmed her from the inside, melting the gloom. The future seemed less bleak. The man across the table grew more appealing by the minute.
Before she knew it, she was confessing—the morning row with her son, his leaving, the pointlessness of it all. Grandkids? One, in Canada. Never even met him. Under Edward’s sympathetic gaze, a tear escaped, but she dabbed it away quickly.
Later, swaying slightly, she leaned on his arm as they left. The pavement gleamed from rain. He opened a taxi door—when had he called one? No matter. She just wanted bed.
The cold air sobered her. At her building, she said goodbye, though he clearly hoped for more. Not a chance.
The next day, he stood outside the clinic with a huge bouquet. No one had brought her flowers in years—Mother’s Day didn’t count.
“Trying to court me?” She glanced back—someone *would* see. “Don’t,” she said firmly, walking off.
“Did I offend you?” He followed, flowers in hand.
“Leave me alone.” She stopped abruptly—he nearly crashed into her.
“At least take these.”
She shot him a warning look and hurried away, leaving him bewildered.
Days passed. No sign of him. *”Good,”* she told herself—yet each evening, her eyes searched for him. On the fifth day, he was there. No flowers.
“Look, I don’t want a fling. Find someone younger.”
“I don’t *want* younger.” His voice matched hers. He looked so wretched, she almost pitied him.
Quiet today, no jokes. They walked to her place in silence. At the door, he kissed her—soft, tentative. Before she could react, he stepped back. Lips still tingling, she entered the building. He followed.
*”Why? What am I doing?”* she wondered in the lift.
In the hallway, he hesitated.
“Wear my son’s slippers,” she said, heading to the kitchen. The kettle roared. “Well? Don’t just stand there.”
He appeared in the doorway—flowers already bright in a vase, tea brewing.
“Your place… it’s cosy,” he said, sitting.
“Are you hoping to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.
Edward swallowed.
“Well… yeah. You against it?”
She studied him, then laughed. He stood, kissed her again—not tentative now, but deep, sure. Her body betrayed her, leaning in. When had she last been kissed? Not unpleasant. Quite the opposite. And later… He stayed till morning.
She meant to say she didn’t believe him, didn’t want fleeting or long-term flings. He’d go back to his wife—they all did. Even her ex had tried, but she’d refused. Love? A fairy tale, especially now. Yet she said nothing.
Edward vanished again. Each day, she scanned the crowd,But when he finally reappeared, standing at her door with a sheepish grin and two tickets to Paris, she realized happiness wasn’t about timing—it was about taking the chance.
