It started with a glance from across the lobby, a slight upturn of his lips, a sexy wink. He introduced himself with a handshake that lingered a little too long. His pheromones danced through the air mixing with mine, releasing a thousand tiny butterflies into my stomach. Instant chemistry. I walked away, giddy. I reached up with my fingers to touch the perma-grin on my lips and said to my co-worker, “I want to marry him one day,” as little prickles of excitement scattered across my skin.
I purposely passed through the hospital lobby where we worked at every opportunity, stealing as many fleeting moments with my potential future husband that I could. He often had patients at his desk, but when I walked through Admitting, he always stopped, said, “hello,” and offered me that naughty wink.
Just like that, I was hooked.
Every single time I saw him, he pulled me in even more, always remembering unnecessary details about short conversations we had in passing, laughing with his entire body about something that I said, flirting with me to no end.
Then one night, a car collided with mine, which left me with a broken pelvis and forced me to take a long leave of absence from my job at the hospital in order to recover. I never went back.
Once I could walk again, I took a job at a piano bar. The opportunity to work as a waitress at a bar seemed much more glamorous than pushing sick people around a hospital. When the owner discovered I too could play the piano, he gave me a standing gig: Every Monday and Wednesday during happy hour, I tickled the ivories of a beautiful grand piano for strangers. Best. Job. Ever.
One day, many months later, I happened to be at my mother’s house, taking advantage of a free meal, when the phone rang. “It’s for you,” my mom said. I figured it was a bill collector and told her to tell them I wasn’t available. She looked at me like I had a frog growing from my head, rolled her eyes, and handed me the phone. “Pay your bills,” she whispered. I frowned at her and raised the phone to my ear.
“Hello.” I said annoyed that I was going to have to give some schmuck at least $25 that I didn’t have.
“Hi. It’s Brendon.”
“From the hospital.”
“Oh, hey, Brendon,” I said visioning Brendon, a nurse in the emergency room who always bought me beers at the bar next door that we frequented after our shift even though I was under age. “What’s up?”
“I heard you had an accident.” I looked at the phone confused. ER Brendon was there in the emergency room the night of my accident. Too there, in fact, because when I came back to consciousness on the ice cold table in the ER, the first thing I noticed was my lack of clothes. I was completely naked, as in no clothes at all, and ER Brendon, my beer buddy, was standing over me. SEEING MY GOODS!!!
“Um, Brendon. Are you high? You were there the night of my accident.” I couldn’t decide if I was happy or horrified that he didn’t remember.
There was a long pause.
“I think you’re confused. This is Brendon from Admitting.”
I dropped the phone and jumped up and down whisper screaming to my mom, “ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”
I picked the phone back up, with my heart jump-roping in my chest. “Oh, okay. Hi, Brendon from Admitting.”
“Are you better?” He cleared his throat. “I’ve missed you.” My entire body tensed, shoulders raised to my chin, eyes wide with excitement. I happy danced in my mom’s kitchen, as she watched me bewildered. Brendon from Admitting was on the other end of the phone, and he just said he missed me.
That night we had our first date.
Originally posted 2/6/14.