‘See you next week, Mrs. Green,’ Hank said. The polite smile on his face held till the door closed behind her, then vanished as he gave a deep sigh of relief and walked back to his desk. Five minutes more with dear old Mrs. Green and he would have killed her. Happily. However, she had another six physiotherapy sessions to go for which he would receive good money from her insurance company, and as dead persons didn’t need his services, he would have been a fool had he strangled her today. But… it had been a close call, especially when she’d persisted in telling him all the intimate details of her uterine surgery.
Hank sat down behind his desk and sighed again. Somehow people thought that because he was a physiotherapist they had a legitimate excuse to tell him all the gory details of every surgery and illness they had endured. And if they didn’t talk about their medical drama’s, they would insist telling him about their love life. They’d go on and on about their boring marriages and secret lovers as if his kneading and massaging their painful muscles activated a yet undiscovered hormone. A mystery gen, forcing them to pour out all their misery or dirty secrets during the thirty minutes of their appointment with him, after which they left his office feeling a hell of a lot better than when they’d walked into it. Of course he knew the talking was an important part of the therapy, maybe as important as his physical treatments, but it sure was a part of his work he could do without.
‘You’ve got mail…’
The metallic voice forced his attention to the Smartphone on his desk. He opened the message, expecting to see another urgent request for treatment from one of the specialists he worked with. Well, however urgent it was, they had to wait; he was fully booked for at least the next two weeks.
‘Sóóó hot here,’ he read. ‘Can’t concentrate at all. And those pink high heeled sandals I bought this morning don’t help. They look perfect in combination with my naked brown body and polished toe nails…’
Hank smiled. His fingers touched the keys with eagerness as he rapidly wrote back: ‘Can’t wait to see them.’
‘Can’t wait to show them.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the hothouse…’
He was already half way his office when he remembered. Damn, he had another client waiting for him; he’d heard the entrance buzzer when Mrs. Green was lying on his table. A new client as well, if he remembered correctly. Could he keep her waiting for another ten, maybe fifteen minutes? That was all he needed for this well earned intermezzo with his wife. It was one of the advantages of having his practice at home. One that he appreciated very much. Especially after his session with old Mrs. Green. He needed to feel young skin under his hands to wipe away the not so appetizing feeling of her wrinkled and scarred body. In a split second he made the decision. Yes! Yes, he cóúld make an excuse. And he would. If his new client didn’t like it, she could find herself another therapist.
Hank opened the door to the waiting room and stuck his head around the corner: ‘Terribly sorry to keep you waiting for a few more minutes, Miss Alderney, but…’ He stopped abruptly when he saw the empty waiting room. No Miss Alderney.
For a moment he was startled. Never before had he experienced a client walking out on him. Well, at least not befóre the first appointment… A faint smell of jasmine and something else, something exotic like the orchids his wife grew in their own private hothouse in the garden lingered in the room. It reminded him of the reason he had wanted to keep Miss Alderney waiting. He shrugged, closed the door and strode through the hallway, through the sliding doors that led into the walled garden.
Thank you, Miss Alderney, he thought, walking towards the hothouse that was placed against the back wall. Thanks to the now cancelled appointment he had lots of time to spend with his wife. In his mind he pictured the pink sandals she would wear. Sandals… and not much else, he was sure. Oh yes, going to a marriage counsellor had been a good move after all. He himself hadn’t been too keen to go, but his wife had insisted. She’d said the assignments they’d get from the counsellor to save their marriage would bring back the lust for each other and he fully agreed. Assignments like this he’d gladly follow up every day.
Blinking against the bright sunlight he opened the door of the hothouse and stepped into the humid atmosphere of an exotic green and dense world. Through his misted glasses he saw her standing near the bench. And as he had expected she was indeed naked but for her very sexy pink sandals…
As she heard him approaching she turned around and said: ‘Well, you’ve certainly kept me waiting, Mr. Physiotherapist. How do you do? I’m Miss Alderney…’
July 2012 © W.H.