He arrived home from Iraq on a morning that was stifled with the scent of things dead and living, some of them newly refreshed and ready, some wilted flowers brushed at his subconscious, rubbing themselves against the scuffed toe of his boots, at which he winced. He looked at the card in his hand; the script was cursive, curly, embossed against the stark ribbed white of the card. Dr. Madison Attard, PhD. He hated doctors. He shrugged off his bag and let it fall into and stir the dirt. He felt his shoulders sag, fought of the sudden urge he had to crumble, join his bag in the dry choking sand.
He was at Redmond Medical Center. It was a plaza, newly built with freakishly perfect landscaping and generic red brick and a gray and black checkered rooftop. People, mostly those of the geriatric persuasion, walked in and out, looking dazed, some in wheelchairs, others leaning on the strength of their loved ones. Diesel ran a hand over the stubbly surface of his head. He was hungry, horny, hot. The last thing he wanted to do was sit in some scarily comfortable leather chair and pour his heart out to some saggy breasted self-important old bitty who probably wouldn't know a good lay if it slapped the notebook out of her hand. She would ask him questions about his tour in Iraq, ask him how it had made him feel, stare at him with fake understanding and empathy, when all she really felt was her superiority and the dollar signs clanging around in her head. There was no way that anyone, save for his company and the others that had served with and before him, could understand how being in the dry suffocating heat of Iraq had been. And he wasn't for God's sake, referring to the temperature.
"May I help you sir?" asked a short older orderly who had wandered from the concrete path leading from the building to the parking lot to question him where he stood, right near the stone fountain, in the heat parched flower bed. He stared down at her, dumbfounded for a couple seconds. She looked unfamiliar, inhuman for a second, as if she had begun melting in the blaring summer sun. Was he even at home? He looked down at his boots again, the scuffs really beginning to get to him. He stared up at the sky, blue, silken, foreboding. "Sir?"
"Yeah," he shoved the card at her, and she examined it closely.
"You're here to see Dr. Attard?" she asked, palming the card as if holding it ransom.
"yeah."
"What times your appointment, I think I just saw her leave for lunch."
"Not until 2:30. What time's it now?"
"Just now one. Are you alright, you look a little sick. Why don't you pick up your bag and follow me inside. It's air conditioned and you can eat something in the cafeteria."
She doesn't say anything but Diesel is sure that the combination of his uniform and his dazed look, his demeanor suggests that he might have been one of the many that had been chewed up and spit out by this everlasting war. He picked up his bag, straightened his stance a bit, and followed the woman into the building. She led him into a small sweet smelling room with five round tables surrounded by expensive looking cloth chairs. She pulled out a chair and he seated himself. She disappeared around a corner and minutes later returned with a plate heaped with everything he had dreamed of devouring the moment he stepped off the plane in Nevada. Steak, sweet, tender steak, sat steaming against a mound of buttery mashed potatoes and green beans. There was a saucer holding corn on the cob and two pieces of wheat bread. A bowl holding a helping of smoking chicken broth based stew of some sort rounded out the most perfect meal he'd ever seen. He didn't even remember her leaving, all he knew was that she sat the plate down and then she was gone, and all he could see, all he cared about, was the food.
The room was empty when he came in, but he suddenly felt a presence other than his own in the room, and turned to see a thin woman come in and drop her purse on the table directly next to his before she disappeared into the same place the woman had brought his food from. He felt himself tense, not up to forcing conversation and answering questions about his uniform, about the blank and no doubt dazed look he was sporting as blatantly as his marine garb. He stood, primed to move far away, his tray of food in hand, and then she returned.
Her breasts. He couldn't help it, it was the first thing he noticed, that and the way her skirt stopped way higher than he would've imagined a skirt in such a professional setting should've. She had the air of someone who worked in the hospital. He wondered about their dress code. She sat down without giving him a second glance. He sat down quickly, suddenly feeling foolish, an alien emotion to him. She didn't seem to even notice him, so he relaxed a bit, picked up his spoon and continued to ladle the delicious brew into his mouth. He'd just finished the soup when her voice severed the silence of the room. It was high, feminine, and it made him ache all over. He caught a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, forcing slyness he didn't think a man of his size could pull off.
She was on the phone, had it pressed against her ear with her shoulder while she rummaged through her massive purse for something she wasn't finding. "It's in my purse you fucking asshole. Here's a tip, if you don't really mean anything behind it, a fucking diamond ring don't mean shit!" she said, this statement, laced in her soft, unthreatening voice sounded inviting, laughable almost, because Diesel knew she was trying to be sharp with whoever was on the other end. Something went wrong and the purse toppled from her lap, assorted items scattered everywhere, many of them landing beneath Diesel's table. Diesel scooted out of his chair, watched out of the corner of her eye as she slammed her cell shut without saying goodbye and bent down to pick up her belongings. Diesel concentrated on picking up her things, made himself ignore the fact that her skirt was really, really too short. So short in fact that as she stooped to pick up her spill it betrayed the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear, and was a stickler for a well groomed pussy, as well, to Diesel's arousal. And her blouse, it was way too tight, her large C's, Diesel guessed that they were either 36 C's or a small D, were stressing the fabric of the pink cotton shirt so much that he was sure that the fabric was going to tear and release them at any second.
"Thank you so much, I'm so clumsy sometimes." She looked up at him, catching his blue eyes with her dark brown ones. Diesel could tell she was flustered, a hint of a blush could be detected beneath the dark brown of her skin. Her lips, perfectly shaped and shining with colorless gloss stretched into a smile, revealing pretty teeth, an almost undetectable gap between the front two. Diesel simply nodded, handed her her things. She dropped everything into her purse, then began to frantically search inside the purse again.
"Shit!" she cursed.
"What, still missing something?" he asked before he knew it. His voice deep and distinct, felt too big for the room.
"Yeah, well, no. Well, shit I, my fiancé, ex-fiancé's ring. I need to find it."
"Why you need it if he's the ex?" Diesel wasn't sure what had gotten into him. Sure, she was hot, but he was not a talker, especially to strangers.
"So I can throw it at his ass. Why else?" she laughed, Diesel felt a smile crack his stiff feeling face. They both stood, him having about a foot on her in height, she stared up at him, with an amused look on her face. "Where are you from, that accent is lovely." He felt heat rise to his cheeks. He'd never heard the word lovely in relation to his accent. He thought he sounded as dirt poor and country as he actually was. Alabama born and bred, the accent only reminded him of why he had gone into the service in the first place. People like him didn't have many other choices besides the military.
