Progress

Back in the hospital, in the deepening night, she rolls over and sighs in her sleep. Dr. Macafee makes a note. He takes another glance, notes his record again.
She breathes.

Next to the note, he attaches a Post-It and doodles an image of a small sun peeking over a wispy cloud. He really needed to get a grip on this mushy stuff.
Crumpling the paper, he stood up and then pitched in the direction of the waste basket near the window.

He sits again.
She breathes again. Turns over.
Mumbles in her sleep.

Dr. Macafee makes another note and puts his pad down. He looks out the window and sighs audibly. This round ought to be over, he thought.


Through the window of Room #126, Noodle watches Dr. Macafee and the sleeping woman, the yellow tulip in one hand and the note in the other. Outside of the hospital room door is the wall folder that typically holds medical charts for patients.

Noodle sighs. Wipes an eye.
She looked so vulnerable there. So incredibly innocent despite her age.
He slides the tulip into the wall folder, watches it droop slightly to the side. For a moment, he remembered the one bouquet of flowers he ever gave her and the way her face lit like a sunrise when she saw them.
Every now and then, she'd take a surprise.

At that moment, he would have rushed in, taken a quiet hand, and confessed it all into her sleeping ear. But she was not alone anymore.

And so he ripped the bottom half of the note, pocketed it.
He placed the other half in the folder with the flower.
He hoped deeply that for now it would be enough.

Silently, he slipped down the hallway, head down, watching the scuffing of his shoes as he left her the second time.