**Wait for Me**
He leaned his back against the rough, cool wall and shut his eyes. For a moment, he felt unable to move. But after a few minutes, he forced himself to step away and walk to the doctors’ lounge.
A couple of hours later, he left the hospital grounds. Two cups of strong coffee had pushed back the exhaustion. Just beyond the gates, a small tree-lined path led straight to the road. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a shifting, trembling pattern on the pavement. He couldn’t recall ever walking this way—usually, he drove to the hospital. But now, for some reason, he wanted to tread lightly over those flickering patches of sunlight, squinting slightly at the brightness. No one was waiting for him at home anyway.
Victor wandered slowly, enjoying the sun and the memory of poplar flurries from earlier in the summer. The season had passed its peak, and ahead lay his holiday. Today, he had won—snatched another life from the grip of the old hag with the scythe.
On one of the benches sat a young woman in a pale summer dress, bent over a book. Strands of auburn hair hid her face from him, and suddenly, he desperately wanted to see it. He walked to the bench and stopped.
She turned a page, still unaware of him.
“Good book?” Victor asked.
She kept reading for a moment longer, then closed it, marking her place with a finger so he could see the cover—*Dear Human Being*, he read upside down.
She lifted her head. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, but they didn’t spoil her face—instead, they lent it a playful charm. Expressive dark eyes, full lips. Fresh-faced and sweet. *Golden*, he thought, watching how the sunlight set her hair alight.
“Interested in medicine, or just the author?” he asked.
“I’ve applied to medical school.”
“Then we’re almost colleagues.” Victor smiled approvingly and sat beside her.
“You’re a doctor?” Her dark eyes brightened.
“A surgeon.”
“You?” She sounded doubtful.
“What’s so surprising? Don’t I look the part? Or do you think all surgeons are grey-haired and silent?”
Her full lips curved into a smile. “What kind of surgeon?”
“Good—you know there are specialties. I wish I could say plastic surgery—sounds more glamorous. But no, I’m just an ordinary surgeon. Someone’s got to remove appendices and gallstones.”
She laughed—a melodious, pleasant sound.
For some reason, he wanted to impress her, to play the world-weary veteran. So Victor began explaining how their profession lacked the romance books loved to dramatize. The stakes were high—a surgeon held lives in their hands, and the operating table was a battlefield of its own, requiring tactics and strategy. He even mentioned today’s case, embellishing the tale with thoughts of the patient’s worried family waiting outside.
At first, she regarded him warily, then with open admiration. Under her gaze, he almost felt like a hero, a wielder of fates. He knew he was running away with himself, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted so badly for this lovely girl to like him.
“You saved a man’s life and talk about it so casually?” she asked seriously.
“It happens every day. Every surgery is a risk. The simplest case can turn tragic.” He turned the question back. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“Not sure yet. I still have to get in.” She glanced at her watch and jumped up. “Oh no, I’m late!” Panic flickered across her face.
“My car’s parked near the hospital,” Victor stood. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
On the way, she explained that she lived with her aunt, her mother’s sister. There was an old spaniel named Whiskey—her late uncle had named him. Her aunt had bad legs, so walking Whiskey fell to her, Emily. The dog was old and couldn’t hold it; if she didn’t take him out on time, there’d be a mess to clean.
“Your aunt difficult?” Victor asked.
“Aunt Margaret? No, she’s kind. She took me in even though she has her own troubles.”
“Where did you come from? The countryside?”
“I’ve always lived here. When I was in Year Six, my mum died. She’d had stomach pain for days but wouldn’t go to hospital. I came home from school and found her unconscious on the floor. Called an ambulance. Her appendix had burst—peritonitis. After that, my dad drank himself to death. Got hit by a bus, accident or not. So now I live with Aunt Margaret.”
Emily got out at her building, glancing back before vanishing inside.
Alone in the car, Victor’s momentary heroism faded. He was just a tired, lonely surgeon again. He felt sorry for her—a good girl, driven, too young for so much hardship.
A month later, after his holiday, Victor walked down the hospital corridor. A young cleaner mopped the floor. A strand of auburn hair escaped her cap. Something about her was familiar. A patient? Someone’s daughter?
She looked up.
“You? Hello.” Her dark eyes lit with pleasure. He remembered her, though the name escaped him.
“Hello. I thought you were going to study, not work?” He slipped into first-name terms without thinking. “Or is a relative here?” He recalled she’d lost parents.
“I got in. Just earning before term starts.”
“Smart. Good to see the inside before committing. Might change your mind. Not aiming to be a surgeon, are you?”
“We’ll see.” She shrugged, and he remembered—Emily.
“Good to see you.” He walked on, certain she watched him go. His stride became lighter, almost careless.
After that, he always hoped to spot her in the corridors. When he did, he’d stop to chat.
Once, he found her waiting near the doctors’ lounge.
“Today’s my last shift. Term starts soon,” she said, blushing—her freckles darkening.
“So you’re still set on studying? Let’s celebrate your last day. And your place at uni. Wait for me, alright?”
She nodded, smiling, flushing deeper.
Two hours later, Victor found her waiting in the lobby. She stood quickly, cheeks pink. They walked out together, not caring who saw. She wasn’t staff anymore—just a student, a future doctor.
They dined at a café, then strolled along the Thames.
“Not in a rush? What about your aunt?”
“She’s visiting a friend in York. Whiskey died last week—very old. She couldn’t bear the empty flat. Kept hearing him bark.” Emily sighed.
“Come back to mine, then. My feet are killing me. Ever tried French wine? No? We’ll fix that.” Suddenly nervous, he braced for refusal.
But she agreed.
“Sorry, the place is a mess,” he warned, unlocking his door. “Make yourself at home. I’ll figure out dinner.”
He rummaged the fridge—leftover takeaway, salad stuff, a bottle of rosé with a fancy label.
“Where’s your wife? On holiday?” Emily asked lightly, stepping into the kitchen.
Victor rinsed vegetables.
“Gone. Sick of me never being home, even weekends. She’d call the ward at night, convinced I was lying. We fought. At first, I moped—slept at the hospital to avoid the empty flat. Then I got used to it. Not divorced yet, though.” He handed her a knife. “Help? I’m hopeless at this.”
“And the meat?” She eyed the takeaway box.
“From a restaurant,” he admitted, though he’d nearly boasted he’d cooked it.
They chopped, laughed, set the table, fingers brushing, bashfulness hidden behind chatter. They drank, ate, talked over each other, dreading silence.
When his phone rang, both froze. Victor stepped away to answer. Returning, he said he was needed at the hospital.
“Get some sleep. Linen’s in the cupboard. Wait for me.”
A multi-car crash had brought in several casualties. He operated all night. At dawn, he hurried home—for the first time in months, someone waited.
He pictured easing the door open, finding Emily asleep, her hair fanned across the pillow. Kissing her warm, sleep-scented skin—his heart leapt at the thought.
He took the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the lift. The door opened quietly. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen.
Kicking off his shoes, he headed there, expecting breakfast. Then he stopped in the doorway.
His wife’s back was turned, her floral dressing gown familiar, blonde hair loose over her shoulders.
She glanced back and smiled.
“Hello,” Vicky said casually, as if they’d parted hours ago—not months.
“Hi. What are you doing here?” Stupid question.
“Pancakes. You must be starving. What happened? Why were you called in?”
“How did you know?” He scanned the room for signs of Emily.
“Looking for someoneShe never came back, and life settled into its old rhythm, though sometimes, in the quiet moments, he still thought of golden hair and freckles dusted like sunlight.
