On the Veranda


A heavy fist rattled the door and a deep, husky voice said comin’ in. Thus entered the doctor, his long white coat parted by his belly, which preceded him into the room. Squeezing his fat forehead was a black band holding one of those silver metal thingies. He glanced at me, and then his eyes flitted to the bench, then back to me. He said, “Why are you standing?” His breathing was heavy.

I motioned to the tissue paper laid across the bench. “I didn’t want to muss it up.”

“Uh huh,” he grunted. “You’re all wet.”

I looked at my feet and realized that a bit of a puddle had formed. “Apologies,” I said. “I was at the swim-up bar much of the night.” I adjusted the lapels of my tweed jacket as a matter of pride, and a few more drops of pool plunked to my shoes.


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