She noticed him the moment he appeared, because his hair seemed extraordinarily black.
Or was it because he strode about with such arrogance, like he owned the place?
Or was it the striped shirt with the rumpled rolled-up sleeves? [But no, she only noticed that later upon closer contact.]
He called out her name, just once, barely taking his eyes off the sickly green folder in his hands.
He glanced around, saw a figure in a blue dress trying gormlessly to gather her belongings while tangled in her ear phones, and returned straight to his room.
She scurried after him with her Big Brown Bag, ridiculously happy that he had not mispronounced her name.
"Sit," he said with his back to her.
She sat. He scribbled. She fidgeted.
He finally swiveled around. His movements were decisive. He did everything crisply. Time was of the essence here.
He was cute, was her first thought. Possibly it was because of her impaired vision.
Her second was, even though we were the only two in the room, he was not looking at me.
"Look straight at me," he said, his face inches away from hers.
So she did, staring directly into a blinding pinpoint of light.
"Look at my left ear."
So she did, stifling an inappropriate giggle.
"Now look at my right ear."
She did it with great difficulty. She was not used to staring at ears.
He reached over and touched her. No one had touched that part of her before.
As he flipped her eyelid over, she flinched reflexively.
He made consoling noises, like she was an obedient puppy, and then flipped it back down.
And then it was over to the other eye. Flip up. Good girl. Flip down.
Before she could blink, he was bending his head, scribbling away in that folder on his lap.
"Your corneas have minor scratches," he informed the folder.
He gave her a prescription and payment instructions, reciting them for perhaps the 20th time that day. Distractedly, harriedly, even wearily, but not unkindly.
He picked up another folder from the pile. She let herself out.
She had just seen the eye doctor. But he had not seen her.
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