The Third Attempt
Joanne slipped into her white coat, sat at her desk, and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself and focus on the day ahead. A knock sounded at the door. “Who on earth could that be?” she sighed inwardly. “Impatient, barging in without giving me a moment to collect myself…”
When she didn’t answer, the door creaked open, and a man’s head poked through the gap.
“May I?”
Joanne Blackwell gave him a stern look.
“Appointments start at two,” she declared crisply, pretending to scan an important document.
After a moment, she glanced back at the door. The man was still there, his head sticking through the gap.
“I just told you—” she began irritably, but he didn’t budge.
“It *is* two,” he said, nodding toward the clock hanging between the two windows.
Joanne checked the wall clock. The minute hand sat squarely on the twelve, ready to tick forward. Time to begin. Her already sour mood curdled completely.
“Come in,” she sighed.
The door swung wider as the man entered. She sized him up with a practiced glance as he approached—definitely not a typical patient. Trim, well-groomed, healthy. No trace of discomfort on his open, broad face.
“Name?” she asked, reaching for the stack of patient cards.
“John Carter.”
He sat, slouched in the chair, elbow propped on the edge of her desk. The casual posture grated on her. *Oh, make yourself at home, why don’t you?*
She found his slim file—just two entries from the optometrist.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked flatly, already preparing to send this perfectly healthy man packing.
“Doctor, I can’t sleep. At work, I’m yawning all day, the second I lie down, I’m out—but then I wake up in the middle of the night and toss till morning.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two months. Since my wife came back. She left me for another bloke—just when I was starting to move on, she waltzed back in. And I can’t kick her out because of our daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for a chest X-ray and bloodwork. Get them done, then come back.”
“Is all that really necessary?” He looked genuinely baffled.
“You hardly ever visit the surgery, haven’t had a check-up in years, have you? Consider this overdue. And while you’re at it, book a full exam—once a year, minimum.”
“And then back to you? What about the insomnia?” John asked, flipping through the stack of referrals.
“Reduce stress. Leave your wife. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“Easier said than done. We’ve got a tiny flat—no way to split it. She won’t leave, and the kid’s still there. My parents are gone. I’m not renting at my age. Just give me some pills, yeah?”
Reluctantly, Joanne pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled a mild sedative.
“You single? As in, not married? You look a bit rough—problems of your own?” John asked suddenly.
The pen stilled in her hand. *The absolute nerve.*
“Is that any of your business?” she snapped.
“Just asking. Doctors are human too. Husband leave you?”
She wanted to say yes—that he’d walked out a decade ago for a younger woman, leaving her with three kids. The eldest was long gone, working in Germany, married, never coming back. A software developer, just like his father. The same man who’d brainwashed the boy, living vicariously through him.
Her daughter had moved to London last year, and even her youngest—her last hope for company in old age—had been lured away by his sister. “Mum, there’s nothing for me here,” he’d said before leaving that very morning, deaf to her protests.
No one thought of her. Fifty years old, staring down retirement and loneliness. No friends left, no parents—no one to confide in.
She snapped back to reality.
“Here’s your prescription. Get those tests done,” she said, sliding the paper toward him.
“Cheers,” John said, taking it—but he didn’t stand.
“Was there anything else? If not, don’t hold up the queue.” She nodded toward the door.
“Right. Cheers, then.” Finally, he stood and walked out. At the door, he glanced back—Joanne hadn’t looked away fast enough.
An elderly woman shuffled in next, one of those regulars who treated the clinic like a social club, eager to chat about her ailments like old friends…
Only when hanging up her coat that evening did Joanne remember the empty flat waiting for her. Despair swallowed her again. She bit her lip hard, swallowing the tears, and marched out of the surgery.
“Joanne?”
She turned. It was John Carter, her first patient of the day.
“I was thinking… You’ve got this sadness in your eyes. Trouble at home? It’s plain as day. I don’t fancy going back either.”
She stiffened. Was it that obvious?
“What makes you say that?” she said sharply.
“Come off it. I know a thing or two about life—and women. Not all are like my missus. Fancy a coffee? Just a chat. Spent all day thinking about you. Not in a creepy way—just… you’re the kind of woman I always imagined. Lovely to look at, just too sad.”
Joanne hesitated, searching for a polite way to tell him to sod off.
“What, trying to figure out how to ditch me? March home to your loneliness?”
*Bloody perceptive, aren’t you?*
“Fine. Let’s go,” she muttered.
He chattered about the weather, the coming winter, while Joanne walked beside him, certain she was making a colossal mistake.
But the coffee lifted her spirits. John cracked silly jokes, pulling laughter from her despite herself. Then a bottle of wine appeared. Why not? It warmed her, dulling the ache inside. The future no longer seemed so bleak. The man across from her grew more appealing by the minute.
Before she knew it, she was confessing—the fight with her son that morning, his departure, the grandchild in Germany she’d never met. A tear escaped before she could stop it.
Later, unsteady on her feet, she leaned on his arm as they left. The pavement glistened with rain. He opened a taxi door for her—when had he called it? No matter. She just wanted to collapse into bed.
The cold air cleared her head. At her building, she said goodnight, ignoring his hopeful look.
The next day, he waited outside the surgery with an enormous bouquet. No one had brought her flowers in years—not like this.
“Are you courting me?” She glanced back at the surgery. The gossip would be relentless. “Don’t.”
“Did I offend you?” He followed, undeterred.
“Leave me alone.” She stopped abruptly—he nearly collided with her.
“At least take the flowers.”
She fixed him with a icy stare and walked off, leaving him bewildered.
Days passed with no sign of him. Yet every evening, stepping outside, she secretly hoped to see him. On the fifth day, he was there—no flowers this time.
“Listen, I don’t want a relationship. Find someone younger.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” he said, looking so wretched she almost pitied him.
That evening, they walked in silence to her flat. At the door, he kissed her—soft, tentative. Before she could react, he pulled away.
Inside the lift, her mind raced. *What am I doing?*
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle while he lingered awkwardly.
“You hoping to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.
He swallowed. “Well… Would you mind?”
She studied him, then laughed. Suddenly, he kissed her again—not shyly this time.
Her body betrayed her, leaning into him. When had she last been kissed like this? It wasn’t unpleasant—far from it. And then… He stayed till morning.
She meant to say she didn’t believe him, that she wanted neither flings nor commitments. He’d go back to his wife—they always did. But she stayed silent.
John vanished again. Each day, her heart sank further—until she spotted him by her building.
“My daughter was ill—I couldn’t leave her,” he said. “I missed you.”
She grew to love his snoring, the warmth of him beside her. *Am I in love? Marrying him?*
*Why not? I like waiting for him, washing his shirts, cooking his meals… Women lie when they say they don’t want this. But he hasn’t asked.*
Six months passed. They lived together. He stayed silent; she feared broaching the future.
One evening, he slid a ring box across the table.
“Proposing, are you?” she asked, eyeing the glitteringShe slipped the ring onto her finger, laughed through happy tears, and realized—after all the near-misses and second-guessing—that sometimes, love really does get it right the third time.
