DocHeart
03-15-2011, 03:43 PM
There was nothing noticeably irregular about that Monday morning in Athens. As eleven o’clock approached the traffic eased off, even the tardiest of office workers behind their desks by then. A light rain had been steadily falling since 8:12. Pavements became wet and slippery. Rubbish flooded the streets. Immigrants sold cheap trinkets at street corners. Thousands of emails were sent and received. Eventually, everyone woke up, even those who had worked the nightshift, and even the artists.
One of the thousands of emails referred to in the above paragraph was from Petros, who had worked the nightshift and had another twelve hours to go before he could go home. The intended recipient was his boss, the Head of Cardiology at Evangelismos Hospital. However, because Petros was using someone else’s computer (his own having been sent away to be repaired six weeks ago), as soon as he typed “k” the damn machine went and completed the rest automatically. And the summary of new admissions went instead to Kiki Athanasiadou. Petros sat in front of his colleague’s computer for much longer than was really required, as the ER seemed to have gone quiet. He stole every second he could, staring at the screen motionless, sleeping with his eyes open. He even dreamt with his eyes open, mostly dreams of meeting someone who could be with him, and he could be with.
Kiki Athanasiadou was at that time editing the short story she had written the night before. She had recently sought a position with the hospital’s IT department for she was a highly qualified unemployed programmer, but above all she was a writer. She was fully aware that her writing was more important to her than her work – why, it was even more important than men. And so that morning she was working on a story titled “Ever-Decreasing Circles.”
It was a story about a guy who jumped off the roof of one of the tallest buildings in Athens. So tall that it’s called “Athens Tower”. And even though compared to other towers of the world it’s pathetically short, it is more than tall enough to serve as the location of a spectacular suicide. Her story took place on an ordinary Monday morning, much as this one, and involved a suited man who does indeed jump off the Athens Tower, but instead of falling as gravity would command he starts making big circles around the sky, descending much slower than anyone would expect. But descend he does, in ever smaller, smaller, and smaller circles, until about one metre from the ground he disappears into his own arsehole. Kiki wanted her story to bring out the essence of the futile. She wasn’t sure it was quite achieving it.
Kiki answered Petros’ email as follows:
“Hi. I came to your hospital for an IT job a few weeks ago. Is deciphering your patient notes part of my aptitude test? Have a good day.”
Petros answered:
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, and thank you for alerting me to this error.”
Sixty hours later, he’s drinking wine at her flat in Ambelokipi listening to her Miles Davis songs.
“You’re not anything like I imagined you’d be,” she says, sprawling naked on his lap, still catching her breath from the orgasm he just stroked and pinched and rubbed her clitoris into. He focuses on her almost paradoxic curl of dark and shiny hair that is resting on the bit of skin between her left breast and her armpit.
“What did you imagine I’d be like?” he asks, licking her fluids off his fingers.
“Lanky. Stuffier. With big glasses and combed hair. Speaking some funny formal doctor lingo even when you’re asking for a blowjob.”
“You thought I was going to ask you to perform fellatio upon me?”
Her laugh is wavy and chesty. Petros is clearly enchanted by it, and by the rest of her. Kiki is happy he shows such interest in her short stories, and she adored what he just did to her with his fingers.
She speaks and kisses his ribcage at the same time, and her question comes out a bit muffled. “Doctor, when you listen to a heart, can you tell if it’s a lonely one?”
“No,” he replies with his eyes shut. “Loneliness is not known to cause any auscultatory artifacts.”
“There you go,” she laughs again. “Auscultatory artifacts. At last, some stuffy doctor talk!”
“Get on all fours and spread your cheeks, my sweet. It’s time for some exploratory poking.” Kiki obeys, and they get married eleven months later. The days that follow their wedding have nothing noticeably irregular about them, especially not the Monday, on which 481 parking tickets are issued, immigrants wash 8.077 windscreens, nine out of ten rubbish bins remain overloaded, there is a bus strike from ten to four, and the PM reassures everyone that Greece will not go into bankruptcy by restructuring its debt. It is the perfect day for a man to jump off the Athens Tower and spiral into his own arsehole, but nobody does. Simply, the number of married couples having loving sex on that particular morning rises from 3,628 to 3,629.
One of the thousands of emails referred to in the above paragraph was from Petros, who had worked the nightshift and had another twelve hours to go before he could go home. The intended recipient was his boss, the Head of Cardiology at Evangelismos Hospital. However, because Petros was using someone else’s computer (his own having been sent away to be repaired six weeks ago), as soon as he typed “k” the damn machine went and completed the rest automatically. And the summary of new admissions went instead to Kiki Athanasiadou. Petros sat in front of his colleague’s computer for much longer than was really required, as the ER seemed to have gone quiet. He stole every second he could, staring at the screen motionless, sleeping with his eyes open. He even dreamt with his eyes open, mostly dreams of meeting someone who could be with him, and he could be with.
Kiki Athanasiadou was at that time editing the short story she had written the night before. She had recently sought a position with the hospital’s IT department for she was a highly qualified unemployed programmer, but above all she was a writer. She was fully aware that her writing was more important to her than her work – why, it was even more important than men. And so that morning she was working on a story titled “Ever-Decreasing Circles.”
It was a story about a guy who jumped off the roof of one of the tallest buildings in Athens. So tall that it’s called “Athens Tower”. And even though compared to other towers of the world it’s pathetically short, it is more than tall enough to serve as the location of a spectacular suicide. Her story took place on an ordinary Monday morning, much as this one, and involved a suited man who does indeed jump off the Athens Tower, but instead of falling as gravity would command he starts making big circles around the sky, descending much slower than anyone would expect. But descend he does, in ever smaller, smaller, and smaller circles, until about one metre from the ground he disappears into his own arsehole. Kiki wanted her story to bring out the essence of the futile. She wasn’t sure it was quite achieving it.
Kiki answered Petros’ email as follows:
“Hi. I came to your hospital for an IT job a few weeks ago. Is deciphering your patient notes part of my aptitude test? Have a good day.”
Petros answered:
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, and thank you for alerting me to this error.”
Sixty hours later, he’s drinking wine at her flat in Ambelokipi listening to her Miles Davis songs.
“You’re not anything like I imagined you’d be,” she says, sprawling naked on his lap, still catching her breath from the orgasm he just stroked and pinched and rubbed her clitoris into. He focuses on her almost paradoxic curl of dark and shiny hair that is resting on the bit of skin between her left breast and her armpit.
“What did you imagine I’d be like?” he asks, licking her fluids off his fingers.
“Lanky. Stuffier. With big glasses and combed hair. Speaking some funny formal doctor lingo even when you’re asking for a blowjob.”
“You thought I was going to ask you to perform fellatio upon me?”
Her laugh is wavy and chesty. Petros is clearly enchanted by it, and by the rest of her. Kiki is happy he shows such interest in her short stories, and she adored what he just did to her with his fingers.
She speaks and kisses his ribcage at the same time, and her question comes out a bit muffled. “Doctor, when you listen to a heart, can you tell if it’s a lonely one?”
“No,” he replies with his eyes shut. “Loneliness is not known to cause any auscultatory artifacts.”
“There you go,” she laughs again. “Auscultatory artifacts. At last, some stuffy doctor talk!”
“Get on all fours and spread your cheeks, my sweet. It’s time for some exploratory poking.” Kiki obeys, and they get married eleven months later. The days that follow their wedding have nothing noticeably irregular about them, especially not the Monday, on which 481 parking tickets are issued, immigrants wash 8.077 windscreens, nine out of ten rubbish bins remain overloaded, there is a bus strike from ten to four, and the PM reassures everyone that Greece will not go into bankruptcy by restructuring its debt. It is the perfect day for a man to jump off the Athens Tower and spiral into his own arsehole, but nobody does. Simply, the number of married couples having loving sex on that particular morning rises from 3,628 to 3,629.