“I guess I’m leaving.” Finn had no choice in the matter, since the hippie orderly with a private Woodstock concert going on in his ears was pulling the gurney out the door with nary a word of warning.
“Come back to me, Finn,” I called after them.
“I hope I can someday, Russel.” He was out of sight by the time the last partial syllable was spoken.
“So do I.” I’d known the guy a matter of hours, or was it minutes, and I really did have hope.
* * * *
By the time I was done in X-ray, now armed with the news that my leg was busted in three places necessitating surgery, up to three months in a cast, and physical therapy, I was wracked with pain and hopelessness. “Eternal always sounded longer.”
“What’s that, Russel?” The latest medic to appear, this one likely from Orthopedics, naturally assumed I was speaking to him.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud about clichés.”