Patience

‘Can you confirm your name and date of birth?’

‘David Armstrong, 12/9/82.’

‘One of these tests requires you to fast. Have you been fasting? No food, drink, chewing gum or smoking?’

‘All of the above, not necessarily in that order.’ 

The woman lifts her eyes briefly from the task at hand of labelling the vials she is preparing for my blood. 

‘But not since yesterday.’

She blinks. ‘Was that a joke?’

‘A dad one.’

‘I see.’ Her eyes shift back to the kidney dish in front of her. She pauses and lifts them again. ‘Was that a joke?’ 

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Though, is a joke still a joke if no one who hears it thinks it’s funny?’

She tilts her head, and mutters under her breath. ‘Yes. I believe that if the intent is to joke, then it is indeed a joke, even if, as you say, no one thinks it’s funny.’ She nods decisively and returns to her work. She’s efficient, and methodical. And curse her, she’s beautiful, even if she doesn’t think I’m funny. I can’t stop myself from staring. Long brown hair, high in a ponytail at the back of her head, green eyes behind dark rimmed glasses, bare faced, except for glossy full lips. She finishes her task and looks up from the kidney dish in front of her. If she’s caught me staring, she doesn’t let on.

‘Left or right?’

‘Left, please.’

She repositions herself on my left side. 

‘Raise your sleeve and make a fist with your hand.’

I do as requested and look away, preparing to feel the tight tourniquet wrap around my arm, the cool wetness of the cotton bud, followed by the scratch of the needle in my vein. I hate the sight of needles, and blood. I have to look away. I wait. Nothing happens. Cautiously, I turn my eyes back towards the pathologist. She’s motionless, staring at my bicep. 

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask. 

She shakes her head quickly, ‘Oh… ah… your tattoo.’

‘Which one?’ I have several on my upper arms.

‘Lola Bunny.’

I smile. She doesn’t. ‘A fan?’

‘N-no, not exactly. It’s a Tazo, isn’t it?’

A millennial baby. Only a child of the nineties would know what they were looking at. Tazo’s were all the rage back then. Round pieces of plastic, about the size of a twenty-cent coin, printed with pictures of cartoon characters and the like. Kids collected them from packets of chips and kept them in folders. Not me. I wasn’t fussed. When I got them, I gave them away. Even this one. 

‘It’s from the Space Jam set. Number 55. There were eighty altogether in that set.’ She stares intensely at the tattoo, then swallows nervously. ‘C-can I touch it?’

I shrug. ‘Sure.’

She removes the glove she had already donned on her right hand, and reaches out, running her index finger around the perimeter of the tattoo. ‘Wow,’ she whispers, reverently. 

I laugh. She doesn’t. She lifts her head quickly, her cheeks colour and she clears her throat. ‘I-I’m sorry. Where was I?’ She takes a fresh glove and minutes later, my blood fills the vials in the kidney dish, and I pull my sleeve back down and head for the door.

‘S-sir, I mean, Mr-,’

‘Dave.’

‘D-do you own that Tazo? Number 55 from the Space Jam set?’

‘I do.’

She inhales sharply, and it seems she wants to say more. She doesn’t. She squeezes her lips tightly together and lowers her eyes. I take that as my cue to leave. 

‘Congratulations.’ I turn back. Her cheeks are pink. ‘You must be very…proud.’

‘Ah…thank-you…,’ I initiate the pregnant pause that would ordinarily let someone know that you want to know their name. Her name is not forthcoming. ‘What can I call you?’

‘Oh! Samantha,’ she offers. 

I smile. She does too, and I leave.

***

It has been a week. Samantha invades my every thought, from when I sit at my breakfast table alone in the morning, to when I sit on the sofa and watch TV alone in the evening. Samantha. Samantha.

***

‘Samantha?’ Standing on my doorstep, sunglasses replacing the clear lensed, dark rimmed glasses she wore at the clinic, a colourful head scarf tied around her head and a hessian bag over her shoulder. In disguise, but I’d know those lips anywhere.

‘Shh,’ she hisses, raising an unsteady finger to her lips. ‘M-may I come in?’

‘Of course.’ I step aside and usher her in. I lead Samantha through to my front room, and motion for her to take a seat on the sofa. I sit down on the opposite end. She looks around, appraising the room and everything in it.

Eventually, a solitary syllable, spoken without any discernible inflection to give me a hint of the meaning. ‘Friends.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You watch Friends.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

‘On DVD.’

‘Yes.’

The tension seeps from her shoulders. She slumps back in the chair, removes her sunglasses, but holds onto her bag tightly on her lap.

‘Obviously, I shouldn’t be here.’

‘Ah…that’s probably true.’

‘I remembered your address, from the clinic. I had to come. I just… I can’t stop thinking about you.’

My heart soars at the unexpected confession. ‘I have to admit, I’ve felt the s-'

‘I have to have that Tazo.’ The words fall from her in a rush, and then she bites her lip, with remorse.

My heart plummets back to earth. ‘The Tazo?’ 

‘Number 55. It’s the only one I’m missing.’ Her hands still shake slightly as she opens the bag on her lap and pulls out an A4 folder, the kind I haven’t seen in decades. On the front, proudly representing the Tune Squad- Michael Jordan, flanked on either side by Bugs Bunny and Sylvester. Inside, page after clear page of Tazos, in lines. And there, in between Number 54 and Number 56- a stark space. ‘See?’ Her eyes turn to me, a silent, desperate appeal. 

Her desperation is only matched by my own. ‘I’m sorry, Samantha. I can’t give you the Tazo.’ Her face drops. Her breath hitches. ‘But stay for dinner, and we’ll see if we can’t come to some kind of arrangement.’

***

Number 55 sits on the centre of the table as we eat. Samantha has difficulty keeping her attention on her meal. She leaves the small talk to me.

‘Where did you develop your love of Tazos, Samantha?’

‘I love everything to do with the 90’s.’ She says it as though it’s obvious- who wouldn’t?

‘Me too. Me too. I was born in-'

‘1982.’

‘Ah… yes.’

'12 September. I never forget a birthdate. You’re a Virgo.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘You’re interested in star signs?’

‘No. It’s just a fact.’

‘Ah-huh. So, you enjoy facts.’

‘Very much.’

‘I love the music of the 90’s. I’ve got a great collection. Shall I put something on?’ I move to stand but stop short. 

‘No!’

‘Oh. OK. I just thought… you said you loved everything to do with the 90's.’

‘I love listing the artists of the 90's, and their albums, in chronological order. I don’t like listening to them.’

‘I see. What else do you like to… list?’

‘Pokemon. 90's movies and their lead actors. Goosebumps titles.’ She pauses, and a slight smile touches her lips. ‘Episodes of Friends.’

I sense I shouldn’t laugh. ‘Would you like to watch an episode now? On DVD?’

She stands. ‘Episode One. ‘The One Where Monica Gets a Roommate’. 

***

It’s three episodes later that Samantha asks about the Tazo again. 

‘Why do you only have Number 55?’

I chuckle. ‘It was my wife’s.’

‘Oh.’ She looks at me blankly. ‘Dead?’

I can’t help it. I smile. ‘No. Divorced. I gave her the Tazo when we were fourteen. She had long blonde-

‘Ears?’

‘Ah...hair, actually. I opened a packet of Doritos from the tuck shop and there it was. I was inspired. Wrote a note on a piece of paper- ‘Will you go out with me?’, wrapped the Tazo in it, and gave it to her.’

‘She said yes?’

‘Yes. And yes, to marrying me ten years later. And yes, to divorcing me, two kids later, five years ago.’

 She tilts her head. ‘Why didn’t she take the Tazo?’

‘Spite.’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The final nail in the coffin of our marriage. Leaving behind the thing that started it all.’ I roll up my sleeve to reveal the tattoo. ‘Not that I could’ve escaped it, even if she’d taken it.’

She gulps and starts to twist her hands in her lap. ‘You must be… sad? About all that?’

‘Not really.’

She furrows her brow. ‘No. I didn’t think that was right. You’re not frowning or crying. You must be…angry?’

‘Not anymore.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m bad at this.’

‘I’m content.’

‘Oh,’ she says, with a sigh of relief. ‘That’s good. Isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, since you don’t need the Tazo anymore, why can’t I have it? You’ll still have your tattoo, after all. That’s punishment enough.’

‘Was that a joke?’

‘Yes. Was it funny?’

‘Yes.’

She smiles. ‘Great.’

‘I can’t give you the Tazo. But here’s what I’m willing to do.’

***

‘Joint custody?’

‘That’s right. The Tazo belongs to me. The album, and your collection, belongs to you. We join them together, and we each keep them, week on, week off. Friday afternoons, you visit me here, we watch an episode of Friends, we make the exchange.’

She turns a little pale as I speak. ‘I-I have to leave my folder here? For a whole week?’

‘I will take very good care of it. I promise.’

‘I don’t know.’ She worries her bottom lip. Finally, she asks, ‘The episodes… will we watch in order?’

‘Of course.’

She huffs out a sigh. ‘Fine. Joint custody. I get the first week.’ I make as though I will argue, even though I don’t intend to. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’ll bring it back. I’m very trustworthy.’

I smile. I don’t need convincing, but I ask, purely for the joy of her answer. ‘How can I be so sure?’

‘I’m a Capricorn.’

***

It’s a fact. Capricorns are, indeed, very trustworthy. Samantha has visited every Friday for the past three months, without fail. We are up to episode 18, ‘The One with All the Poker’. It’s between episodes that she talks. I enjoy it when she talks.

‘I love my job.’

‘You’re very good at it.’

She blushes. ‘Yes. But why do you say that?’

‘You have steady hands. And you’re not afraid of blood.’

‘Huh!’ she laughs. ‘What’s to be afraid of? It can’t hurt you.’

‘It can if, like me, you faint at the sight of it.’ She furrows her brow. ‘Concussion, broken bones, lacerations. More blood. More fainting. It’s a vicious cycle.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, indeed. Why do you love your job?’

‘The formula.’

‘Formula?’

‘Come in. Take a seat. Confirm your name and date of birth. Which arm- left or right? Thank-you. Bye now.’ She frowns. ‘I don’t like it when people say extra things, though.’ 

‘Or make bad jokes?’

She blushes again. ‘I- Oh God, I’ve been rude, haven’t I?’

I laugh. ‘Not at all. I enjoy your honesty.’

‘Well, if I’m being honest… when you say extra things, I don’t mind.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know why. I almost… like it when you speak to me.’

I think that’s progress.

***

It’s been four months. Four months of sitting on the sofa together, once a week, watching Friends episodes, in order. Samantha sits on one end. Always the same end. I sit on the other. She likes it when I speak to her. She laughs at my jokes now, if she knows I’ve made one. I can now tell, with a reasonable degree of accuracy, when she is making a joke, and they are always funny. I am happy. And I have to be patient.

‘Do you have a partner, Samantha?’

She looks at me, slightly startled. ‘A partner? No! Of course not.’

‘Of course not?’

‘What would I do with a partner? I don’t like people speaking to me.’

I smile. ‘So, you say. But don’t you want a family one day? Children?’

She shudders. ‘Absolutely not. The noise, the mess, the cuddles. It’s not for me. Anyway, I’m thirty-five. I’d be a geriatric.’

I laugh. ‘A geriatric? At thirty-five?’

‘Thirty-five is the age of Advanced Maternal Age.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s a fact.’ She looks around, craning her neck to look down the short corridor that leads to the bedrooms in my home. ‘Where are your children?’

‘With their mother.’ She can’t have just noticed. 

‘Do you want any more?’

‘If you’re a geriatric, Samantha, I most certainly am.’

‘It’s different for men.’

‘That may be so, but no, I’m done.’ At the risk of making her blush, I add, ‘I’ve had the snip.’

She nods. ‘Very sensible. Since you’re done. Reduces the risk of unplanned pregnancy to practically zero percent. That is, of course, if you…’ Now she blushes. ‘I mean, if you don’t, then it is actually zero. But that’s none of my business.’ We lapse into silence. Samantha wrings her hands in her lap. ‘Do you?’

I smile. ‘Do I what?’

‘Do you… I mean… I-is the chance of… unplanned pregnancy… practically zero, or actually zero, in your case?’

‘Are you asking me if I have a partner?’

‘Yes,’ she says, with an exhale that tells me she was holding her breath. ‘I’m so glad you understand me.’

‘I do.’ She recoils in horror. ‘I do understand you, I mean. I don’t have a partner.’

‘Oh,’ she says, with another exhale, and a smile touches the corner of her lips. ‘I’m… sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘You’re very nice. And handsome. And you try to be funny. I don’t know how much money you have.’ She looks around again. ‘It seems to be enough. I’m sure you’ll meet someone.’

‘Who knows? Maybe someone will just turn up on my doorstep one day.’

She tilts her head. ‘I would think the chances would be better if you went out.’

***

We are halfway through Season Two before I have the nerve to make a move on Samantha. 

‘Another episode?’

Samantha checks her watch. ‘I could stay for one more.’

I shuffle across on the sofa, and drape one arm across the back, behind her. It’s bold. I expect her to flee, like a spooked kitten. She doesn’t. I lean across her to reach for the remote, which I keep on the wooden end table, along with my reading glasses, and a crossword book. Samantha watches my arm as it crosses her body. She watches me pick up the remote. Then she turns back to me, her eyes wide. I’ve made a mistake. 

‘How could you?’ She jumps to her feet, her cheeks flushed bright red. Her chest heaves, as she looks from the small table, to the remote in my hand, and back again. ‘All this time!’ She chokes out a sob, picks up her bag, and runs for the door. 

I follow as quickly as I can. ‘Samantha, wait! I’m sorry. I-'

She is outside before she pauses. She turns back to face me, tears streaming from her eyes. ‘How could you? You know I’m… I’m… different. You must know I can’t understand… All this time, you let me think…’

‘Samantha, I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have… I should have…’ I stop short. ‘What should I have done?’

‘You should have told me I was sitting in your spot!’ Ah. ‘All this time, you let me sit there, when that is clearly your spot! You have your little table, with your things, and the remote- oh! I feel so stupid!’

I know it will confuse her, but I can’t help it. I smile. She frowns at me and stamps her foot. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I’m sorry. You’re right. If it bothered me that you were in my spot, I should have told you. And I promise you, I would have. The reason I didn’t say anything is because I didn’t mind.’

She looks warily at me. The flow of tears stems, and it is only those that last fell that slide slowly down her cheeks. ‘How can you not mind? It’s your spot.’

I shrug. ‘I don’t mind because it’s you sitting in my spot. And quite frankly, I don’t mind you. You can sit anywhere you like, as long as it’s here.’ I’m feeling brave. ‘With me.’

‘Oh.’ Her voice catches on the word. ‘That’s… I… please never sit in my spot, will you?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ I hold out my hand. She takes it and moves a step closer. ‘I’d like to kiss you, though. Would that be ok?’

She bites her lip, and then nods. She closes her eyes. I kiss her, gently, on the lips. She sighs, and gradually her eyes open, then light up. ‘Does this mean I can have the Tazo?’

I laugh, a hearty laugh that I barely recognise. ‘Yes, Samantha. You can have the Tazo.’ 

For a moment, she is full of joy, but then her smile fades, and her face drops. ‘Oh. I see.’ 

‘How does that make you feel?’

‘I was happy. And then I realised that if you give me the Tazo, I won’t have to visit you anymore. And it felt like…like… I’d dropped my heart.’

Very good. ‘I should have mentioned, there is a condition.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘The Tazo is yours. But the collection stays here, with me. You can visit it- and me- whenever you like and stay for as long as you like.’

‘Oh,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I like that condition.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Dave.’

‘Samantha.’

Her eyes search mine. ‘The blood tests. W-what were the results?’

I smile. I have been patient. ‘In remission.’