Nemaisare
RPM
Mjolnir
Stryder BC
enmuni
Cinny
Candy Cane Elf
Sleepy Tani
webboysurf
Frank Short arrived at Willow Hyde's clinic twenty-two minutes early because he had absolutely nothing better to do and because old age had apparently transformed punctuality into a personality trait. The morning air bit through his denim jacket the second he climbed out of his rust-speckled pickup, and he immediately regretted every decision that had led him to being outside before nine in the morning. Damp frost clung stubbornly to the edges of the parking lot where the sun hadn't quite reached yet, and the Black Hills rose dark and pine-covered beyond town. Frank shoved both hands into his pockets and scowled at the weather like it had personally insulted him. "Too old for this shit," he grumbled as he shuffled toward the front door. "Waking before noon is a crime, a damned crime."
The clinic smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle one of the nurses kept hidden behind the reception desk despite being told not to. Frank knew because he'd been coming here for years. High blood pressure. Cholesterol. The occasional broken bone from forgetting he wasn't thirty anymore. He lowered himself into one of the waiting room chairs with the careful determination of a man whose joints had become active participants in every movement. The seat creaked beneath him. Frank pointed an accusing finger at it. "Don't start." He wasn't entirely certain whether he was speaking to the chair or his lower back.
A magazine sat abandoned on the side table beside him. Frank picked it up, flipped through exactly three pages, then tossed it back with visible disappointment. Twenty years ago waiting rooms had better reading material. These days everything was healthy recipes, local news, and articles about stretching exercises, he should have brought one of his magazines. Busty Maid Manor always served to make him feel extra springy in the early morning, even if it wasn’t technically socially acceptable. His gaze drifted toward the reception desk where a young mother was trying unsuccessfully to stop her toddler from licking the armrest of a chair. Frank watched the battle unfold for several seconds before shaking his head. "Kid's building an immune system," he informed nobody in particular. "Might end up stronger than all of us."
The truth of why he was there sat heavily in the back of his mind, though not heavily enough to produce actual shame. Embarrassment, maybe. Irritation, definitely. He'd spent the better part of a week trying to convince himself the problem would simply disappear if he ignored it hard enough. Unfortunately biology remained stubbornly unconvinced by his strategy. The memory of a certain grandmother from the community center flashed through his thoughts, followed immediately by the realization that he was currently seventy-six years old and sitting in a doctor's office because of it. Frank pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. "Hell of a way to stay active, though, and she told me to stay active." he muttered, snickering to himself.
When the door to the examination hallway finally opened and the receptionist called his name, Frank pushed himself upright with a theatrical groan that echoed through the waiting room. Every joint in his body contributed an opinion to the effort. He tugged down his jacket, straightened his collar, and limped toward the door with what he imagined was dignity. "Let's get this over with." he announced to the universe at large.
”I am a good doctor and I love my job,” had become a daily affirmation that Willow told herself in the morning and throughout her workday. It was very rare that she ever questioned either of those facts, but there was something about the first person she was scheduled to meet with today that often had her repeating her mantra over and over until she believed it again. While she waited for the nurse to check Frank’s vitals in the room just outside, she organized his files and collected the information she needed before he was directed towards her office.
There wasn’t anything extravagant about it. On the far side was the desk where her laptop sat, and a window that allowed warm light from the sun in. Its light hit a row of crystals that decorated the seal, and it gave the plant by her computer its much needed nutrients. Everything about the room was safe and homely, only clinical where it needed to be. It could almost be mistaken for a guest room in a log cabin, if not for the rows of supplies on the walls, and the sink, and those three chairs that every family doctor’s office seemed to have that sat adjacent to the desk.
She did not dislike Frank, but when he entered the room she preemptively inhaled. The only problem with him was that it was so difficult to get him to actually listen and take her advice, or to continuously take his prescribed medicine as he was— well— perscribed. Despite this, she turned around and smiled warmly as he entered. ”Good morning,” she greeted. ”You were originally scheduled to come in a few months from now, but as I understand you needed to come in sooner. Want to tell me about what’s been going on?”
It wasn’t like him to willingly come into the office, so she would be lying if she said she wasn’t concerned.
Frank shuffled into the office with the weary determination of a man who was too stubborn to admit he was aging in any way other than graceful. The warmth of the room hit him immediately, carrying the scent of sunlight, clean linens, and whatever plant Willow kept alive near the window through some kind of witchcraft. His gaze landed on the familiar chairs and his expression soured on principle. "You should invest in the ones that are higher up," he grouched as he lowered himself into the seat with several concerning pops from his knees. "It's like I'm sitting on the damn ground, Willow. These knees aren't what they used to be, you know." He shifted once, twice, then settled with a dissatisfied grunt that suggested the chair had personally offended him.
The sunlight spilled across the floorboards and warmed one side of his jacket while he glared suspiciously at the crystals lined along the window. Frank had been coming here long enough to know they weren't hurting anybody, but that didn't stop him from eyeing them like they might suddenly start judging his life choices. Which, admittedly, would be fair. His fingers drummed against his crossed arms while Willow spoke, and for a moment he looked almost tempted to dodge the question entirely. That impulse lasted all of ten seconds.
A silence stretched between them as Frank stared toward the wall behind her desk. The admission seemed to physically pain him. His jaw worked once. Then twice. Finally he let out a long breath through his nose and slumped deeper into the chair like a condemned man accepting his sentence. "I've got crabs." The words arrived blunt and irritated, hurled into the room like he was angry at the diagnosis for existing. His arms crossed tighter over his chest as he scowled at absolutely everything. "And before you start, no, I don't need a lecture. It’s not gonna stop me from getting it on with those old birds, so don’t even bother."
Frank's gaze slid toward the window before immediately darting away again. A faint flush crept into the weathered lines of his face despite his best efforts to maintain dignity. "In my defense," he muttered, sounding considerably less confident now that the words were actually leaving his mouth, "Martha Dawson has been lying about her age since the Carter administration, and she was real persuasive about the community center storage room being empty." He couldn’t help the sly little grin that slid onto his wrinkled face. "And no one else uses the pool on Tuesday afternoons, ever had sex in a pool Willow? It’ll change your life."
Willow wasn’t sure what she expected. She wasn’t sure that she expected anything at all, yet somehow she found herself shocked and not surprised whatsoever. As Frank’s explanation went on, and the name Martha Dawson registered as a name and face she knew adding more vividness to the picture she did not want painted, she sighed and clicked her tongue. Her fingers found her keyboard and she started to navigate the compendium of creams and shampoos used to treat this particular STI.
”Well,” she started. ”I can’t say that I’ve ever done anything like that in a pool, no.” It didn’t take long for her to find what she was looking for, and she clasped her hands together afterwards and turned her attention fully to the man across from her. ”The good news is that I’ve prescribed a shampoo for you to apply ‘down there’ that should take care of your problem after a couple of weeks. The bad news is you’re going to have to keep to yourself until the lice all die out unless you want to spread it around even more.”
Why hadn’t Martha come to see her? Stubborn old lady. If it was bad enough for Frank to come in to complain about it, then she was certain it wasn’t a comfortable experience whatsoever. She was a little surprised to see that Frank was so open with her about it though. When they first met, it was hard to get any information at all out of him. There were a lot of issues of trust and confidentiality they had to slowly work through to get to this point, so, she supposed she was happy to see him today… in a way.
”I’m glad you came to see me instead of just trying to deal with it, though. All you have to do is apply the shampoo you’ll get nightly, and make sure you thoroughly wash your sheets and towels frequently, and we’ll forget about this problem entirely by the end of the month.” She leaned in a little so they were closer to eye level— maybe had a point about those chairs, weren’t they close to the same height? ”It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
Willow's reassurance earned a skeptical noise from somewhere deep in Frank's chest. He shifted in the chair again, the vinyl squeaking beneath him as he crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. The movement carried all the confidence of a man who had somehow learned absolutely nothing from the conversation so far. His weathered face remained fixed in a stubborn frown while he processed the instructions about shampoo, clean sheets, and temporary celibacy with visible dissatisfaction.
"Well," he said briskly, as though responding to a business proposal he found mildly inconvenient. One hand lifted from the armrest and began counting off names on his fingers. "I've already been with Barbara, Clarice, Evette, and..." He paused, squinting toward the ceiling while searching his memory. "Eloise." The final name arrived with complete innocence. Frank seemed to be pretending to be entirely unaware that the mention of Eloise was significantly more alarming than the others, given she was the Reverend's wife.
A beat passed. Then another. Frank's brows furrowed slightly as the implications finally began catching up to him. "Actually..." he muttered, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. "You probably shouldn't put that one in the chart." The suggestion came several seconds too late to be useful. His gaze drifted toward the window as though the trees outside might provide legal counsel.
The old man let out a long sigh and slumped deeper into the chair. For the first time since entering the office, a genuine hint of embarrassment crept into his expression. Not enough to stop talking, unfortunately. "Look, in my defense," he said, holding up a finger, "Nobody told me retirement was eighty percent doctor's appointments and twenty percent trying not to die." His eyes narrowed suspiciously at Willow. "And before you ask, no, I am not calling any of them. Last time I tried making a responsible adult phone call, Barbara accused me of giving her athlete's foot through psychic means, crazy old bird."
Willow opened her mouth to speak, but then remembered the first thought to come into her head wasn’t always the best thing to say aloud. So instead she sighed and itched the side of her face. More names. More faces she did not want to associate with that kind of debauchery. Not that she was a prude, or anything was wrong with sex, but there were very obvious reasons why she did not want to picture Frank with any of those women. She reorganized all the words in her head, cut out the unnecessary ones, and began a reprised version of the original thought she had.
”Well I can’t make you call any of them, and I’m not really in a position to do it myself,” she explained slowly— confidentiality, and all that. ”Does it stress you out, Frank? All of the appointments?”
It was common to be a little restless and anxious all the time at the age he was at. Especially when there were very apparent health issues that needed to be monitored if he wanted to live the rest of his life comfortably. There were more aspects to her job than just prescribing medicine, so her question was earnest and engaged. If there was more that she could help him with than just the STI, she wanted to know what she could do. Maybe if they could have a half-decent conversation about his mental state, he wouldn’t spend so much time… doing the only other thing he seemed to make time for aside from his doctor’s appointments.
”Do you have any hobbies, Frank? I heard about a chess club in town that meets up weekly. Some new friends and a game to learn might help you manage any anxieties you may have.” Willow hadn’t been there herself, but she knew a little bit about everything going on in town. It wouldn’t be hard for her to get him connected with that club, or any other one for that matter, so that he’d have something to do besides spreading crabs to the rest of the elderly in town.
Frank stared at Willow for several long seconds. The question seemed to genuinely confuse him. His brows pulled together behind his glasses and his mouth opened slightly as though he were trying to determine whether she'd actually asked it or if he'd accidentally fallen asleep in the waiting room and started dreaming. Then realization finally caught up with him.
A loud bark of laughter burst from his chest. It rolled through the office with enough force that he had to lean back in the chair and wipe at one eye. "Lord have mercy," he wheezed, shaking his head. "You really think that's the problem?" The amusement lingered in his grin as he settled back down and adjusted his glasses with one finger. "My wife passed ten years ago," he said slowly, as though Willow herself might be struggling to keep up. "Ten. Years."
The old man pointed toward her with the same finger he'd used to adjust his glasses. "And I don't play chess, or pickleball, or shuffleboard, or any of those idiotic sports you young people think we need to stay happy." His hand dropped back to the armrest with a dismissive wave. "I swear every time somebody turns sixty, the entire world decides they need a hobby involving khaki shorts and scorecards." Frank's nose wrinkled with visible disgust at the prospect.
He shifted in the chair again, crossing his arms over his chest while sunlight spilled across the floor beside him. The crystals in the window caught the light and scattered little flecks of color across the desk. Frank ignored them entirely. "The only thing I'm stressed about is how long I have to go without getting some because of these damn crabs." The complaint came out with all the gravity of a man discussing a terminal illness rather than a very treatable inconvenience.
Another shake of his head followed as he settled deeper into the chair. His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back up without thinking. "If I die getting laid, then I'll die a happy man. Mark my words, doctor." His expression grew unexpectedly thoughtful for a moment before a crooked grin returned.
Of course. Willow didn’t know why she expected anything else, really. They teetered on the edge of progress, like a coin progressively spinning out to a stop. Before the final drop, however, it was ripped right off of the table. She sighed, shrugged and then glanced at her computer once more. ”You know, I won’t argue with you. There are plenty of people who are content with that kind of lifestyle.”
Different strokes for different folks, she wanted to say. She felt as though Frank would get too much of a kick out of that, though.
Willow hardly remembered Frank’s wife. The last time she saw her was before she left for college— so, a long time ago. She passed before she returned to Pine Ridge, and didn’t learn the details until some time after Frank became one of her patients. They only knew each other in passing, as most knew one another in this small town, so it didn’t come as a surprise to her to learn. Part of her wondered if her patient was any different before that time, because either way she only came to know the man he was after.
”You should be able to pick up your prescription in a couple of hours,” she mentioned. ”Keep yourself clean and if you have any problems in the meantime you’re free to call. I’ll check in on you myself in a couple of weeks to see whether or not it worked.” As she looked back at Frank, she smiled in that same unjudging way she always had with her patients. The light from the window refracted through the crystals, causing the side of her face to sparkle in a strange, multicolored glow.
”Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
Frank waved a dismissive hand through the air before Willow had even finished the question. The motion carried all the finality of a man who considered the appointment concluded the second he'd been promised medication. The crystals scattered little flecks of color across the desk as he pushed himself forward in the chair and planted both hands on his knees.
"Nope. I think we've both suffered enough for one morning," he said. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slowly hauled himself upright. Every joint between his ankles and shoulders seemed determined to announce its existence during the process. "I'll see you in a couple weeks."
The old man steadied himself once he was standing and adjusted his glasses back into place. For all his complaining, his expression softened slightly as he looked at her. Willow had spent years patching him back together after his own questionable decisions, and somehow she still greeted him with patience every time he walked through the door. "Thanks, kid." The gratitude came simply, without sarcasm or some joke attached to it.
A groan escaped him as he turned toward the door and began shuffling across the office. His hand found the doorknob, then paused there for a moment. "And if anybody asks," he added without looking back, "This appointment was about my blood pressure." The request was immediately followed by a snort at his own joke before he pulled the door open and disappeared into the hallway, muttering something under his breath about community centers being a poor hook up spot, and there wasn’t even a jacuzzi, it was blasphemous.
Willow wasn’t sure if it was worth mentioning that the hundred different confidentiality laws in place would prevent her from answering any questions about him in the first place. She decided against it, and watched as his back disappeared behind the doorway. It was all she could do but shake her head and turn back to her laptop. ”I don’t even have a spell that could fix whatever screw’s loose in there…” she murmured, though there was a smile on her face as she spoke.
The clinic smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle one of the nurses kept hidden behind the reception desk despite being told not to. Frank knew because he'd been coming here for years. High blood pressure. Cholesterol. The occasional broken bone from forgetting he wasn't thirty anymore. He lowered himself into one of the waiting room chairs with the careful determination of a man whose joints had become active participants in every movement. The seat creaked beneath him. Frank pointed an accusing finger at it. "Don't start." He wasn't entirely certain whether he was speaking to the chair or his lower back.
A magazine sat abandoned on the side table beside him. Frank picked it up, flipped through exactly three pages, then tossed it back with visible disappointment. Twenty years ago waiting rooms had better reading material. These days everything was healthy recipes, local news, and articles about stretching exercises, he should have brought one of his magazines. Busty Maid Manor always served to make him feel extra springy in the early morning, even if it wasn’t technically socially acceptable. His gaze drifted toward the reception desk where a young mother was trying unsuccessfully to stop her toddler from licking the armrest of a chair. Frank watched the battle unfold for several seconds before shaking his head. "Kid's building an immune system," he informed nobody in particular. "Might end up stronger than all of us."
The truth of why he was there sat heavily in the back of his mind, though not heavily enough to produce actual shame. Embarrassment, maybe. Irritation, definitely. He'd spent the better part of a week trying to convince himself the problem would simply disappear if he ignored it hard enough. Unfortunately biology remained stubbornly unconvinced by his strategy. The memory of a certain grandmother from the community center flashed through his thoughts, followed immediately by the realization that he was currently seventy-six years old and sitting in a doctor's office because of it. Frank pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. "Hell of a way to stay active, though, and she told me to stay active." he muttered, snickering to himself.
When the door to the examination hallway finally opened and the receptionist called his name, Frank pushed himself upright with a theatrical groan that echoed through the waiting room. Every joint in his body contributed an opinion to the effort. He tugged down his jacket, straightened his collar, and limped toward the door with what he imagined was dignity. "Let's get this over with." he announced to the universe at large.
”I am a good doctor and I love my job,” had become a daily affirmation that Willow told herself in the morning and throughout her workday. It was very rare that she ever questioned either of those facts, but there was something about the first person she was scheduled to meet with today that often had her repeating her mantra over and over until she believed it again. While she waited for the nurse to check Frank’s vitals in the room just outside, she organized his files and collected the information she needed before he was directed towards her office.
There wasn’t anything extravagant about it. On the far side was the desk where her laptop sat, and a window that allowed warm light from the sun in. Its light hit a row of crystals that decorated the seal, and it gave the plant by her computer its much needed nutrients. Everything about the room was safe and homely, only clinical where it needed to be. It could almost be mistaken for a guest room in a log cabin, if not for the rows of supplies on the walls, and the sink, and those three chairs that every family doctor’s office seemed to have that sat adjacent to the desk.
She did not dislike Frank, but when he entered the room she preemptively inhaled. The only problem with him was that it was so difficult to get him to actually listen and take her advice, or to continuously take his prescribed medicine as he was— well— perscribed. Despite this, she turned around and smiled warmly as he entered. ”Good morning,” she greeted. ”You were originally scheduled to come in a few months from now, but as I understand you needed to come in sooner. Want to tell me about what’s been going on?”
It wasn’t like him to willingly come into the office, so she would be lying if she said she wasn’t concerned.
Frank shuffled into the office with the weary determination of a man who was too stubborn to admit he was aging in any way other than graceful. The warmth of the room hit him immediately, carrying the scent of sunlight, clean linens, and whatever plant Willow kept alive near the window through some kind of witchcraft. His gaze landed on the familiar chairs and his expression soured on principle. "You should invest in the ones that are higher up," he grouched as he lowered himself into the seat with several concerning pops from his knees. "It's like I'm sitting on the damn ground, Willow. These knees aren't what they used to be, you know." He shifted once, twice, then settled with a dissatisfied grunt that suggested the chair had personally offended him.
The sunlight spilled across the floorboards and warmed one side of his jacket while he glared suspiciously at the crystals lined along the window. Frank had been coming here long enough to know they weren't hurting anybody, but that didn't stop him from eyeing them like they might suddenly start judging his life choices. Which, admittedly, would be fair. His fingers drummed against his crossed arms while Willow spoke, and for a moment he looked almost tempted to dodge the question entirely. That impulse lasted all of ten seconds.
A silence stretched between them as Frank stared toward the wall behind her desk. The admission seemed to physically pain him. His jaw worked once. Then twice. Finally he let out a long breath through his nose and slumped deeper into the chair like a condemned man accepting his sentence. "I've got crabs." The words arrived blunt and irritated, hurled into the room like he was angry at the diagnosis for existing. His arms crossed tighter over his chest as he scowled at absolutely everything. "And before you start, no, I don't need a lecture. It’s not gonna stop me from getting it on with those old birds, so don’t even bother."
Frank's gaze slid toward the window before immediately darting away again. A faint flush crept into the weathered lines of his face despite his best efforts to maintain dignity. "In my defense," he muttered, sounding considerably less confident now that the words were actually leaving his mouth, "Martha Dawson has been lying about her age since the Carter administration, and she was real persuasive about the community center storage room being empty." He couldn’t help the sly little grin that slid onto his wrinkled face. "And no one else uses the pool on Tuesday afternoons, ever had sex in a pool Willow? It’ll change your life."
Willow wasn’t sure what she expected. She wasn’t sure that she expected anything at all, yet somehow she found herself shocked and not surprised whatsoever. As Frank’s explanation went on, and the name Martha Dawson registered as a name and face she knew adding more vividness to the picture she did not want painted, she sighed and clicked her tongue. Her fingers found her keyboard and she started to navigate the compendium of creams and shampoos used to treat this particular STI.
”Well,” she started. ”I can’t say that I’ve ever done anything like that in a pool, no.” It didn’t take long for her to find what she was looking for, and she clasped her hands together afterwards and turned her attention fully to the man across from her. ”The good news is that I’ve prescribed a shampoo for you to apply ‘down there’ that should take care of your problem after a couple of weeks. The bad news is you’re going to have to keep to yourself until the lice all die out unless you want to spread it around even more.”
Why hadn’t Martha come to see her? Stubborn old lady. If it was bad enough for Frank to come in to complain about it, then she was certain it wasn’t a comfortable experience whatsoever. She was a little surprised to see that Frank was so open with her about it though. When they first met, it was hard to get any information at all out of him. There were a lot of issues of trust and confidentiality they had to slowly work through to get to this point, so, she supposed she was happy to see him today… in a way.
”I’m glad you came to see me instead of just trying to deal with it, though. All you have to do is apply the shampoo you’ll get nightly, and make sure you thoroughly wash your sheets and towels frequently, and we’ll forget about this problem entirely by the end of the month.” She leaned in a little so they were closer to eye level— maybe had a point about those chairs, weren’t they close to the same height? ”It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
Willow's reassurance earned a skeptical noise from somewhere deep in Frank's chest. He shifted in the chair again, the vinyl squeaking beneath him as he crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. The movement carried all the confidence of a man who had somehow learned absolutely nothing from the conversation so far. His weathered face remained fixed in a stubborn frown while he processed the instructions about shampoo, clean sheets, and temporary celibacy with visible dissatisfaction.
"Well," he said briskly, as though responding to a business proposal he found mildly inconvenient. One hand lifted from the armrest and began counting off names on his fingers. "I've already been with Barbara, Clarice, Evette, and..." He paused, squinting toward the ceiling while searching his memory. "Eloise." The final name arrived with complete innocence. Frank seemed to be pretending to be entirely unaware that the mention of Eloise was significantly more alarming than the others, given she was the Reverend's wife.
A beat passed. Then another. Frank's brows furrowed slightly as the implications finally began catching up to him. "Actually..." he muttered, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. "You probably shouldn't put that one in the chart." The suggestion came several seconds too late to be useful. His gaze drifted toward the window as though the trees outside might provide legal counsel.
The old man let out a long sigh and slumped deeper into the chair. For the first time since entering the office, a genuine hint of embarrassment crept into his expression. Not enough to stop talking, unfortunately. "Look, in my defense," he said, holding up a finger, "Nobody told me retirement was eighty percent doctor's appointments and twenty percent trying not to die." His eyes narrowed suspiciously at Willow. "And before you ask, no, I am not calling any of them. Last time I tried making a responsible adult phone call, Barbara accused me of giving her athlete's foot through psychic means, crazy old bird."
Willow opened her mouth to speak, but then remembered the first thought to come into her head wasn’t always the best thing to say aloud. So instead she sighed and itched the side of her face. More names. More faces she did not want to associate with that kind of debauchery. Not that she was a prude, or anything was wrong with sex, but there were very obvious reasons why she did not want to picture Frank with any of those women. She reorganized all the words in her head, cut out the unnecessary ones, and began a reprised version of the original thought she had.
”Well I can’t make you call any of them, and I’m not really in a position to do it myself,” she explained slowly— confidentiality, and all that. ”Does it stress you out, Frank? All of the appointments?”
It was common to be a little restless and anxious all the time at the age he was at. Especially when there were very apparent health issues that needed to be monitored if he wanted to live the rest of his life comfortably. There were more aspects to her job than just prescribing medicine, so her question was earnest and engaged. If there was more that she could help him with than just the STI, she wanted to know what she could do. Maybe if they could have a half-decent conversation about his mental state, he wouldn’t spend so much time… doing the only other thing he seemed to make time for aside from his doctor’s appointments.
”Do you have any hobbies, Frank? I heard about a chess club in town that meets up weekly. Some new friends and a game to learn might help you manage any anxieties you may have.” Willow hadn’t been there herself, but she knew a little bit about everything going on in town. It wouldn’t be hard for her to get him connected with that club, or any other one for that matter, so that he’d have something to do besides spreading crabs to the rest of the elderly in town.
Frank stared at Willow for several long seconds. The question seemed to genuinely confuse him. His brows pulled together behind his glasses and his mouth opened slightly as though he were trying to determine whether she'd actually asked it or if he'd accidentally fallen asleep in the waiting room and started dreaming. Then realization finally caught up with him.
A loud bark of laughter burst from his chest. It rolled through the office with enough force that he had to lean back in the chair and wipe at one eye. "Lord have mercy," he wheezed, shaking his head. "You really think that's the problem?" The amusement lingered in his grin as he settled back down and adjusted his glasses with one finger. "My wife passed ten years ago," he said slowly, as though Willow herself might be struggling to keep up. "Ten. Years."
The old man pointed toward her with the same finger he'd used to adjust his glasses. "And I don't play chess, or pickleball, or shuffleboard, or any of those idiotic sports you young people think we need to stay happy." His hand dropped back to the armrest with a dismissive wave. "I swear every time somebody turns sixty, the entire world decides they need a hobby involving khaki shorts and scorecards." Frank's nose wrinkled with visible disgust at the prospect.
He shifted in the chair again, crossing his arms over his chest while sunlight spilled across the floor beside him. The crystals in the window caught the light and scattered little flecks of color across the desk. Frank ignored them entirely. "The only thing I'm stressed about is how long I have to go without getting some because of these damn crabs." The complaint came out with all the gravity of a man discussing a terminal illness rather than a very treatable inconvenience.
Another shake of his head followed as he settled deeper into the chair. His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back up without thinking. "If I die getting laid, then I'll die a happy man. Mark my words, doctor." His expression grew unexpectedly thoughtful for a moment before a crooked grin returned.
Of course. Willow didn’t know why she expected anything else, really. They teetered on the edge of progress, like a coin progressively spinning out to a stop. Before the final drop, however, it was ripped right off of the table. She sighed, shrugged and then glanced at her computer once more. ”You know, I won’t argue with you. There are plenty of people who are content with that kind of lifestyle.”
Different strokes for different folks, she wanted to say. She felt as though Frank would get too much of a kick out of that, though.
Willow hardly remembered Frank’s wife. The last time she saw her was before she left for college— so, a long time ago. She passed before she returned to Pine Ridge, and didn’t learn the details until some time after Frank became one of her patients. They only knew each other in passing, as most knew one another in this small town, so it didn’t come as a surprise to her to learn. Part of her wondered if her patient was any different before that time, because either way she only came to know the man he was after.
”You should be able to pick up your prescription in a couple of hours,” she mentioned. ”Keep yourself clean and if you have any problems in the meantime you’re free to call. I’ll check in on you myself in a couple of weeks to see whether or not it worked.” As she looked back at Frank, she smiled in that same unjudging way she always had with her patients. The light from the window refracted through the crystals, causing the side of her face to sparkle in a strange, multicolored glow.
”Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
Frank waved a dismissive hand through the air before Willow had even finished the question. The motion carried all the finality of a man who considered the appointment concluded the second he'd been promised medication. The crystals scattered little flecks of color across the desk as he pushed himself forward in the chair and planted both hands on his knees.
"Nope. I think we've both suffered enough for one morning," he said. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slowly hauled himself upright. Every joint between his ankles and shoulders seemed determined to announce its existence during the process. "I'll see you in a couple weeks."
The old man steadied himself once he was standing and adjusted his glasses back into place. For all his complaining, his expression softened slightly as he looked at her. Willow had spent years patching him back together after his own questionable decisions, and somehow she still greeted him with patience every time he walked through the door. "Thanks, kid." The gratitude came simply, without sarcasm or some joke attached to it.
A groan escaped him as he turned toward the door and began shuffling across the office. His hand found the doorknob, then paused there for a moment. "And if anybody asks," he added without looking back, "This appointment was about my blood pressure." The request was immediately followed by a snort at his own joke before he pulled the door open and disappeared into the hallway, muttering something under his breath about community centers being a poor hook up spot, and there wasn’t even a jacuzzi, it was blasphemous.
Willow wasn’t sure if it was worth mentioning that the hundred different confidentiality laws in place would prevent her from answering any questions about him in the first place. She decided against it, and watched as his back disappeared behind the doorway. It was all she could do but shake her head and turn back to her laptop. ”I don’t even have a spell that could fix whatever screw’s loose in there…” she murmured, though there was a smile on her face as she spoke.
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