The Third Try
Joanne slipped into her white coat, settled at her desk, and leaned back in her chair. She shut her eyes, willing herself to calm down and slip into work mode. A knock at the door. *Who could that be?* she thought irritably. *They won’t even let me collect myself, barging in like this…*
When she didn’t answer, the door creaked open, and a man’s head peered through the gap.
“May I?”
Joanne gave him a stern look.
“Appointments start at two,” she clipped, pretending to study an important document.
A moment later, she glanced back. His head was still there, hovering in the doorway.
“I just told you in plain English—” she began, but the head didn’t retreat.
“It *is* two,” the man said, nodding toward the clock between the two windows.
Joanne checked the wall clock. The minute hand sat stubbornly at twelve, ready to begin its circuit. Time to start. Her already sour mood curdled.
“Come in,” she sighed.
The door swung wider, and the man stepped inside. She assessed him automatically as he approached—definitely not a typical patient. Trim, well-groomed, healthy. No trace of discomfort on his open face.
“Name?” she asked, reaching for the stack of files on her desk.
“Wilson, Thomas James.”
He sat, sprawling back in the chair, elbow propped on the edge of her desk. The casual posture grated on her. *Like he owns the place.*
She flipped open his thin file—just two notes from the optometrist.
“What seems to be the problem?” she said flatly, ready to dismiss him.
“Can’t sleep, doctor. Yawning all day at work, then as soon as I hit the pillow—wide awake. Or I’ll drop off, only to wake up at three and stare at the ceiling till dawn.”
“How long?”
“Since my wife came back. Left me for some bloke—just when I’d got used to peace, she waltzed right in again. Can’t kick her out either. We’ve got a daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for an X-ray and bloodwork. Get those done, then come back.”
“Can’t you just—?”
“You rarely visit the clinic, never had a check-up, correct? Consider this your annual. Procedure.”
“So then I come back? What about the insomnia?” Wilson asked, flipping through the stack of forms.
“Remove the stress. Leave your wife. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Gladly—but where would I go? Our flat’s tiny, no chance of trading up. She won’t budge, and there’s the kid again. My parents are gone. Not about to rent at my age—why should I? Just give me some pills.”
Reluctantly, Joanne pulled out a prescription pad.
“You single? I mean, not married? You look rough. Problems weighing you down?” Wilson asked suddenly.
Her pen froze. *How dare he?*
“What’s it to you?” she snapped.
“Just asking. Doctors are human too. Husband leave you?”
She nearly told him—ten years ago, he’d walked out for a younger woman, left her with three kids. The eldest was gone now, working in Germany, married, no plans to return. IT, like his father. *Pushed him the way he never could himself.*
Her daughter had bolted for London last year. The youngest had been her last hope—until this morning, when he’d boarded the train despite her protests. No one thought of her. Fifty, staring down retirement and solitude. No friends, no parents, no one to complain to.
Joanne snapped back.
“Here’s the prescription. Get the tests done.” She slid the paper toward him.
“Ta.” He took it but didn’t move.
“Anything else? If not, don’t keep the others waiting.” She jerked her chin toward the door.
“Right, right. Cheers.” Wilson finally stood. At the door, he glanced back—Joanne hadn’t looked away fast enough.
An elderly woman shuffled in, the sort who treated the clinic like a social club, her ailments a cherished topic…
Only when hanging up her coat did Joanne remember the empty flat waiting. Despair folded over her. She bit her lip hard, forced the tears back, and stepped outside.
“Joanne?”
She turned. Wilson, her first patient of the day.
“Thought about you. That look in your eyes—misery. Trouble at home? Written all over you. I don’t fancy going back either.”
Was it *that* obvious?
“What gave you that idea?” she snapped.
“Come off it. I know life—and women. Not all like my wife. Fancy a coffee? Just a chat. Spent all day thinking about you. Not like *that*—but seeing you, I thought—*this* is the kind of woman I’ve wanted all along. Lovely to look at, just too sad.”
Joanne stayed silent, searching for a polite way to refuse.
“Working on how to ditch me politely? March off to your lonely flat?” Wilson chuckled.
*Oddly perceptive.*
“Fine,” she said.
He prattled about the weather, the coming winter. Joanne walked beside him, certain this was a mistake—just more disappointment.
But the coffee warmed her. Wilson spun ridiculous anecdotes, cracking awful jokes until she laughed. Then a bottle of wine appeared. Why not? It glowed in her chest, loosening the knots. The future felt less bleak. He was growing on her.
Before she knew it, she’d confessed the morning’s row with her son, his departure, the pointlessness of it all. Grandkids? One in Germany—she’d never even seen him. A tear escaped before she wiped it away.
Later, leaning on his arm, she swayed out of the café. Rain-slicked pavement glinted under streetlights. Wilson opened a taxi door—when had he called it? No matter. She just wanted bed.
The cold air cleared her head. At her building, she bid him goodnight, ignoring his hopeful look.
The next day, he waited outside the clinic, flowers in hand. No one had given her blooms in years—Mother’s Day didn’t count.
“Courting me?” She glanced back. The gossips would have a field day. “Don’t bother.”
“Offended you?” He matched her stride, bouquet outstretched.
“Leave me alone.” She halted abruptly; he bumped into her.
“Take the flowers, at least.”
A warning glare sent him stumbling back.
Days passed. No sign of him. Yet each evening, her gaze darted to the clinic doors. On the fifth day, he stood there—no flowers.
“Listen, I don’t want this. Find someone younger.”
“Don’t want anyone else.” He looked so wretched she pitied him.
Quiet now, he didn’t try to charm her. At her building, he kissed her—soft, tentative. Before she could react, he pulled away.
Inside the lift, her thoughts raced. *What am I doing?*
In the kitchen, the bouquet already brightened the table.
“You hoping to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.
Thomas swallowed.
“Well… yes. Objections?”
She laughed. He kissed her again—not gentle this time.
Her body betrayed her, leaning in. When had she last 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 return to his wife. They always did. Even her ex had crawled back—she’d shut the door. Love at fifty? Ridiculous. But she stayed silent.
He vanished again. Each day, disappointment gnawed. Then—there he was, by her building.
“My daughter was ill. Couldn’t leave her.” He looked exhausted. “I missed you.”
She loved waking to his snores, his warmth, his arm slung over her in sleep. *Falling for him? Marriage?* her mind taunted.
*Why not? I like waiting up, washing his shirts, cooking… Women lie when they say they don’t.*
Six months passed. He never mentioned the future. She didn’t dare.
One evening, he slid a ring box across the table.
“Proposing?” She eyed the glittering stone.
“Try it.”
It fit.
“Will you?”
“You’re married.” She removed it.
“Not anymore. Bought this the day after we met. Couldn’t give it till now. I’m free.”
“I’m fifty—”
“So? Love doesn’t expire. Young love’s all heat. This? Soul-deep.”
They filed the paperwork. No fuss—just a quiet ceremony. She bought a cornflower-blue dress to match her eyes, hung it carefully. Each morning, she’d stare, disbelieving.
The night before, she cooked endlessly, stocked champagne.
“Smells amazing,” Thomas said, inhaling deeply.
“For tomorrow.”
“WhatYet as the clock chimed noon the next day, they found themselves—ringless, disheveled, and laughing—married at last in a quiet corner of the registry office, proving that even the third try could be the charm when love refused to give up.
