Working Sunday
Hey Aaaaaiiii,
Working Sunday. We have a free camp at the Hospital today, and I kept cases as well. Don't ask what we have on the menu for lunch for the anesthesiologist. #Wazwan
How was the evening? The swim? The sea? The float? Did you become a mermaid? Find a rock and sit and look at a handsome man fishing nearby? Did he see you and jump in after you and almost drown? Did you save his life? And then administer CPR? And did you have to intubate him? And then extubate him? Did you fall in love with him?
#seawater
How are the boys? How was #teamflute ?
Anything special this Sunday?
#here
(((Anyways))) PPD scratches his beard. He notices his reflection in the silver mic. His beard is whiter, the lines on his face are deeper, the ravines of time, carving valleys. He thinks about the Grand Canyon and thinks about farmers who age in the Sun and how years are marked in the depths of collagen.
The Guest snaps her fingers. 'I am going to miss my train.'
PPD, not one to be rushed, especially since such meetings are rare and worth waiting for, and podcast is not to be aired for a few weeks, at least, smiles. 'I know. I am going to miss mine, too.'
The Guest looks at the Producer, who after being gassed, is wearing a surgical mask, gloves, and a Surgeon's (anaesthesiologist's!) cap, ducks under the window pane and a crash is heard. The Producer is found ducked under the table.
The Guest gets up and walks out the door. But she doesn't call the lift.
(((Anyways)))
OB