Expectations.

Her tight smile never quite reached her eyes, and the irritable way in which she answered every question told me something was wrong with Tara. Staff and patients scurried in and out of the waiting room while she assisted each need with thinly veiled annoyance.

On a good day, Tara's eyes were these huge, wide-set owlish things that seemed to evoke as much curiosity as wonderment. Today, the watery, unblinking tenor set a more uneasy tone. 

I spent the first half of my shift cataloging and dismissing all her cues, but interacting was unavoidable; the obvious nagged all night like an itch.

“What’s wrong with you?” I waited until things were quiet, though I knew from experience it wouldn’t last long. As if following my train of thought, Tara's big eyes quickly darted left to right before landing on me with the same level of annoyance she’d possessed with others.

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? 'Fine' is universal for—“

“Fine is universal for fuck off,” she claps back. Shoulders slumping, she apologizes, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for.”

I've always thought Tara was sweet, so I give her a break. She’s beautiful, certainly, in a strange kind of way. A work friend, nothing more, though I wouldn’t say no to a nightcap if we ever found ourselves together outside of work. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I gently demand.

“I’m uh… I’m just a little irritable tonight."

"It seems like there's more to it. You can talk to me, you know."

She makes a strangled sound, followed by an awkward wince. “It’s really kind of embarrassing.”

Intrigued, though I try to maintain an expression of concern, I lean forward on the desk between us. Tara's phone sits dormant beside her, the computer screen bright with the evening's calendar. 

When she realizes I'm not going anywhere without a little more information, reluctantly, she attempts to explain. “I’ve been in this sort of… recovery group. It’s just a little embarrassing to talk about, is all.” Her cheeks tinge pink, and she gestures with an aloofness she clearly doesn’t feel.

“Oh, Tara, I had no idea. Are you okay? You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Do you have someone to talk about this with? Maybe in HR—“

“No! Sorry, no, I don’t want anyone from HR knowing about this.”

“You know, they have no right to discriminate against you for your addiction. It's illegal.”

Another strangled sound escapes her. “No, it’s not that kind of addiction.”

There's a commotion by the revolving front doors, a couple of security guards dealing with an unruly drunk. I can see the matted blood against his hairline from here. I wish I could say that was uncommon, but it would be a lie.

Addiction comes in all forms. I never judge.

Turning back to Tara, I remind her of this. She still looks uncomfortable, but at least she's no longer weaponizing those giant, expressive eyes, making me feel like a bother for my concern.

"It's not that I don't trust you, it's just… I don't think you'd understand."

"That's not really fair, Tara. I mean, if you don't want to tell me, that's one thing, but don't use your insecurities against me."

Her eyes narrow, but her shoulders relax slightly, falling further from her ears where they've been taking residence all night. 

"I guess it could help to talk about it. The truth is, I'm obsessed with reading."

I wait for the punchline that never comes. 

She squirms, "Look, I know it doesn't sound like a real thing. But I can't go an hour without it. Since it's books, I always assumed it wasn't a real problem. So what, I'd spend a few extra minutes reading a few paragraphs in the line at the grocery store or stay up a little too late finishing a book because I couldn't sleep without knowing the ending."

"Okay…"

"I know it doesn't sound like a big deal."

I want to dissuade her of that notion, to assure her I understand, but I don't think I can.

"I started to realize how much I was using books to escape reality. I skip dinner plans with family or cancel plans with friends or first dates because I'd rather be inside a world created in my head than with other humans. Sometimes I pretend to work, but I'm actually on my Kindle on my phone!"

"Tara, that's not good," I chastise her. "What we do here is very important—"

"I know, I know. It's awful. I just couldn't stop. Anyway, I'm working on cutting back, it's just hard."

"Okay… alright, that's good, Tara." I do my best not to sound condescending, but my fleeting crush on her has, well, fleeted. 

With a little more confidence, she sits taller in her chair. "I mean, some of it's sophisticated. 'Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.'" 

Tara's big eyes flutter, watery and distant, lost in some romantic quote from another time and place. Her wistful smile falls off, replaced with the fake, tight one. "That's James Joyce—one of my favorites. And last week, I finished this incredible book, Demon Copperhead. It won a Pulitzer."

"That's very nice, Tara," I give her my own fake smile back, standing a little straighter, ready to get the fuck out of this weird conversation.

"But then… then there's this book, Mated by the Monster Orc."

"What?"

"Yeah. Or like, Seducing the Vampire King. Stuff like that."

Blink. Blink. Silence. 

"Mostly, I like editing those books in my head. Can you imagine if they were done really well? Like, Tolkien meets Debby Does Dallas. Or Brontë meets John Wick. It would be amazing.”

"Tara…"

"I know, I know. I have a problem. My point is it doesn't matter what I'm reading. It can be the best literary piece of the decade or absolute trash; I just can't stop. It's interrupting my life, it's affecting my work. I love it, and… I don't. I just can't stop escaping reality, even for five minutes. It's so easy to fall into someone else's fantasy."

She finally turns to me, but given the physical distance I've put between us, her brow furrows, and she shrinks away, shoulders climbing back toward her ears. I can't bring myself to care. I'm annoyed and offended that she thinks this is an actual problem.

I take a deep breath, attempting to sound non-judgemental. "Addiction is a serious thing, Tara. It's complex and consequential—"

"Exactly!"

"And you're making a mockery of other people's struggles."

Shame colors her cheeks, but I can't bring myself to care.

"Dr. Matthews?" She calls out as I straighten my stethoscope draping across my neck, and stalk toward the entrance to the ICU.

Slamming my palm against the swinging door, I look back at her slack-jawed expression and snap, "Why can't you just do cocaine like the rest of us!"