If only we had met sooner…
Eleanor arrived at the clinic on time, collected her file from reception, and climbed to the second floor. Every chair outside Room Twelve was occupied by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill, a man stood quietly by the pane of glass.
“Are you all here for Room Twelve?” Eleanor asked timidly.
“Yes. You’ll be behind that gentleman by the window,” one of the women replied.
“But I have an appointment slip,” Eleanor said, reaching into her pocket.
“Everyone here has a slip,” croaked a frail, silver-haired old man.
She caught the curious gaze of the man by the window and moved toward him.
“Do you have an appointment too? For what time?” she asked.
He seemed younger than the others, calm.
“Nine-thirty,” he answered readily.
Eleanor stared at him in dismay.
“Then why are you in the queue? Your time’s long passed. Or were you late?”
“It’s not us who’re late—we came early—but the doctor’s delayed,” interjected the old man, sparking a murmur of discontent among those waiting.
Eleanor turned to him. “Then what’s the point of appointment slips if it’s just first come, first served?”
“Want to complain? Useless. First, a war veteran jumped the queue—lied, of course, he’s no older than seventy, same as me. Then the clinic director brought in a friend. They ‘consulted’ for forty minutes. Free healthcare, eh?” he grumbled.
“At this rate, we won’t be seen till evening. Do I have to book another slot?” Eleanor protested, glancing at the man by the window for support.
“Don’t fret—he’ll see everyone, though hastily. The doctor’s human too. Understands but can’t change the system,” the old man said, raising a bony finger. “Their line is simple—if you don’t like it, go private.”
“But that’s not right—” Indignation bubbled inside Eleanor like steam in a kettle.
“My advice? Don’t stress. You won’t change a thing, only harm yourself,” the man by the window said philosophically.
She joined him, weighing whether to wait two hours or leave.
“Orthopedics is always a nightmare. One doctor, dozens of us. He’ll send you for X-rays—another queue—then back here with the scans…” The old man waved a hand in defeat. The others groaned in agreement.
“Maybe I should just go,” Eleanor thought, but stayed rooted, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked.
She looked at him but didn’t answer.
“Is it serious?” he pressed.
“Everyone here thinks theirs is serious.” She peeled herself from the sill, cast a final glance at Room Twelve, and walked toward the stairs.
Uneven footsteps followed. She turned—the man was limping after her.
“Leaving too?” she asked, relieved not to be alone.
“Ever tried private?”
“Same doctors, just charging,” he replied.
They exited the clinic together.
“Bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk—clear my head.” She passed the stop.
“Wait—I’ll join you,” he called.
“Shouldn’t you rest? The bus would be easier.” She slowed despite herself. *”He’s latched on now.”*
“I recognized you. We booked slots together Monday, then shared the bus home. You live near me—we got off at the same stop.”
“You *followed* me?” Eleanor flushed. *”Absolutely unhinged.”*
“Coincidence.”
They walked in silence. She matched his pace to ease his limp. Two stops later, they boarded a bus, then alighted together.
“That’s mine,” he said, nodding at a blocky apartment opposite. “May I walk you home?”
“Your leg—does it hurt?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Fancy coming to the community centre tomorrow? We’ve a sort of club. You’ll enjoy it.”
“I don’t do gatherings. And they’re *your* friends.”
“Shame. I was an actor. Well—almost. They said I had promise.” He smiled at her skepticism. *”Smooth talker.”*
“What stopped you?”
“Love. Fell head over heels for the fairest on our course. Would’ve died for her. One evening on the bridge—lights glittering on black water—I confessed.”
“And?”
They reached her door, but she lingered, drawn in.
“She demanded proof. ‘Climb the beam.’ Seven metres up, metal cables like ropes. Young and daft, I ran up, balancing. Then—stuck. Terrified to jump or descend. So I ran down… and fell. Shattered everything. Hence the limp.”
“The girl?”
“Visited me in hospital, apologized. Married a classmate. Even starred in a soap. I started the club—failed actors, poets. We sing, read, support each other. Will you come?” His gaze was hopeful.
“Tomorrow? What time?”
“Six. Ask for Reginald Whitlock. Everyone knows me.”
She said she’d think it over. Glancing back at the gate, she found him watching her.
Next day, she nearly didn’t go. But by five, curiosity had her dressing.
The centre directed her to a bright room where a dozen sat around a tea-laden table. Reginald greeted her warmly.
Two men played guitars; women harmonized. A gaunt man recited his novel in a rich baritone.
Then Reginald sang—velvet voice, soul-stirring. Tears pricked her eyes.
“Without the limp, he’d be on every stage,” someone whispered. *”A talent.”*
“Well?” he asked later on the bus. “Regret coming?” *”He’s better than the famous ones,”* she gushed.
“Fame would’ve spoiled me. Only regret? That girl wasn’t worth the fall.”
They walked often in the park. He recited原创诗歌, and she listened, rapt. He spilled his past; she offered little.
“I married another beauty. Why stay with a failure like me? She left. Rightly. What could I give her? Songs? Poems? Art won’t feed you. And this limp.”
Beside his talent, she felt ordinary. Yet she ached for him.
At her birthday, he stunned her friends and daughter—roses, guitar, that voice.
“Mum, where’d you *find* him?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“The clinic. Orthopedics queue.”
“Your knee again?”
“Honestly? I’d forgotten the pain,” Eleanor admitted, blushing.
“You’re smitten. That voice—I got goosebumps!”
“If we’d met ten years earlier…”
“*Please.* He adores you. Inviting him here?” Her daughter smirked.
Eleanor *had* noticed his glances, the way they melted her. Never thought she’d feel this at her age.
She yearned for their walks, preened before mirrors. They skirted passion, respecting bounds.
Then—silence. No calls. His phone dead. She marched to his block, pride be damned.
A grandmother in the yard knew him. “Flat nine. But an ambulance took him two days ago. Heart, they say. Why? You a *fan*?” Disapproving.
The intercom unanswered, a young man approached. “You’re Eleanor?”
His son.
“Dad spoke of you. Regretted meeting so late,” he said on the stairs.
Dread choked her.
Inside, she repeated: “What’s wrong?”
“Died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. Come. He wanted you called. I thought… he couldn’t bear another betrayal.”
She barely recalled the walk home.
At the service, his friends mourned. “The most talented of us… We’ll publish his poems… Wrote nonstop at the end. Founded our brotherhood…”
Grief hollowed her. Her knee flared anew.
Back at the clinic, Room Twelve’s chairs were full. She leaned where he once had, then left—no patience left.
Then—uneven steps behind her.
She walked, speaking to him. Passersby stared; she didn’t care. She *heard* him. Felt him. Always would.
