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"It was nice to see you too, Mrs. Smith, and I will definitely tell my Mama you asked about her," I crooned, guiding one of my many little, old ladies towards the exit of my practice. I hope she can't smell the alcohol I'm sweating out, but honestly, she's a vintage Southerner. She'd never point out something like that.
Mrs. Smith continued, "I always look forward to this appointment. You're just the most wonderful young man with the best manners."
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Smith. I am hardly a young man any longer, but I do appreciate the compliment."
It's Friday. I'm hungover. I haven't gotten laid in weeks. WEEKS. This moment feels like hell. I need to be finished walking this patient out (Why am I even doing this?), get my keys, and hit the Waffle House, maybe even a nap in my car. I am not going to make it like this.
I'm pretty sure Mrs. Johnson was still talking when I closed her passenger side door. I pretended not to notice and backed away, smiling and waving.
Jogging past the front desk, I let our receptionist know that I'm heading out for a long lunch.
"I have some things to do, so I'll be gone a while," I mumble distractedly.
"Well, I hate to tell you this, but you still have one appointment before lunch," Sarah laughs.
Sarah is the receptionist. Sarah is in her twenties and does not get hangovers, and I don't think she really hates to tell me that. I hate Sarah right now.
"No fucking way!" I bark.
"Yep. And here she comes," Sarah said, raising her eyebrows and cutting her eyes to the door.
I don't even bother to look. I turn on my heel and head for my office. I have to get a Coke and something to eat. I don't care who she is.

The second gulp of full-test Coke starts to slow the tremble in my hands. Jerky. Peanut butter