Crush

Dr. -- is over 6 feet tall and broad shouldered, with a mass of curly golden brown hair and a very noble nose. He had for many years been working at Saint Saveus, free clinic for homeless veteran's, but now he works at the prison. He also sits on the national board for A Famous International Medical Humanitarian Group, on behalf of whom he dashes off to rural Cambodia and the like every year. There he stops Dengue Fever with one hand, and slices out a devastating life threatening brain tumor from a young child with the other, all while looking meaningfully into the horizon. Also on behalf of the organization he attends elegant balls and fundraisers among movie stars in the hills of Malibu, while reporters and pearl strewn ladies swoon about him. He carries an assortment of brand name degrees from some of the Best Schools in the Country, rapier wit, twinkling skepticism and boyish charm. This coupled with his capacity to weild machetes and scalpels alike, imbue him with the elegant bravado of a Gentleman of Yore, like a medal-strewn lieutenant for the the Third Republic of France, sword, sharp uniform, and transcendent grace. But his designer watch, well stocked ipod and expertise in acupuncture imparts a hip and modern sensibility.

Dr.-- is not married but is rumored to have had an affair with a 25 year old medical student whom he was supervising in his clinic. It is not clear how everyone knows this as any interrogation, however politely and slyly posed, yield a weighted and evasive silence. This ensured a delicious intrigue surrounding the man, and the even more alluring danger of possibility. She, a beautiful swaying thing with flowing hair and lean legs, eventually left for Brazil. Dr.-- continued to teach, eliciting longing sighs in his wake when breezing down the halls, and leaving even the heterosexual boys in nervous titters in their admiration.

I knew Dr.-- lived in my neighborhood, and even the approximate cross streets, had once seen him walking the dog early in the morning. However today, i had seen him emerge from the door of his actual abode. I was feeling particularly potent--freshly hopped up on my coffee, the sun was out, having the best hair day in months, and blasting Shakira on my portable music device. A heady mixture for brazen and potentially inappropriate behavior.

We had of course, once spent several weeks in a small space, I one of the students, he the dashing teacher. We spent arduous one on one meetings arguing the differential of chest pain. And while my classmates and I would giggle and wink after hours, he was of course, a Professional, an expert in diffusing emotion, redirecting innuendos and donning a firewall of cool demeanor. But he was also a very savvy fellow who clearly enjoyed the attention of women, and had cultivated expertise in glances that lasted a wee bit too long, the tease of dancing conversation, and a concerned touch at the elbow that was quite aware of the slobber it would induce.

It was this intoxicating concoction i wanted a hit of this morning, as i jubilantly made my way over to shout, "Well hello!!"

A very unusual thing however, I was hit with a very rare instance of pause-before-one-does-a-foolish-thing (i suspect that whatever neural correlate that causes people to think about their action before doing it, mine is shriveled, or on strike; but every so often it lumbers into action). First, does it make one uncomfortable to be greeted by someone unexpectedly at their front door? Especially, if by all looks of it, he was still wearing his night clothes, some sort of tshirt and sports pants, his hair not its usual elegant coif, his eye glasses in place and a giant box of recycling in his hand. Pausing, i was also shocked to realize--as handsome and gallant as he was, he looked terrible.

This perhaps is unfair. Legions of snarky stalker websites reveal that the world's most beautiful celebrities look ridiculous when taking out the recycling on an early Monday morning. But there he was. Perhaps it was that he was without his fashionable clothes? Or without the signs of his profession, the same one in which i aspire to his heights? Perhaps like my youthful barista, who turned out to be a bewildered and remarkably normal (if charming) boy. Dr--, in his frumpy house clothes, stripped of his swagger and grooming--was also a remarkably normal man. And incidentally, one that was clearly twenty years older than myself.

I meandered on, turned down the Shakira a notch. The best intoxications are indeed self induced. Another day, another delicious delirium.