Page 8 of Bad at Love

A few people around the cafeteria give me strange looks and scowls, but I ignore them. It happens often. I sigh and get up from the table so I can grab something to eat. When I’m done eating, I go back to the lab.

Somehow, in the thirty minutes I was gone, my workload piled up. I’ve got nine samples to run. I get lost in work, which is the one thing that can take my mind off just about anything. No, there isn’t anything special about urine samples and throat swabs, but considering I have to be meticulous when working with them, so I don’t cross contaminate, my brain goes into full work mode—and I pay attention to nothing else.

Which is how it’s suddenly a few minutes before four and I’m being relieved by the next shift.

“There’s nothing in the queue for you. Clean slate,” I say as I grab my messenger bag and put the strap over my head to rest on my shoulder.

The guy, someone I don’t recognize and is probably a fill-in, nods and drops into the chair. His head falls back and he closes his eyes. It’s people like him that make me wish I could work 24/7, if only to make sure things get done correctly. You aren’t going to tell me that guy doesn’t skip corners. It’s practically written on his forehead.

I skip corners.

I shake my head and hurry out of the lab because it’s none of my business. Marta is working a double today, so at least I’ll have a quiet night alone. Not that she visits me, but she does like to call to chat or check in.

The drive takes longer than usual because there’s a crash and I get caught in the traffic. Once I’m home, I’m relieved. Until my phone rings. There are only three people who call me.

Marta. Telemarketers. And my mother.

I prefer them in that order.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I seemotherflashing across the screen. I consider not answering it, but she’ll only call back. It’s not that I hate my mother, it’s just… Well, it’s something.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Gabriel, how are you?”

“Fine, Mother. How are you?”

I force the words out slowly, making sure to enunciate each one.

“I’m calling to remind you of the anniversary dinner.”

“Thank you for the reminder, but I have it in my calendar.”

“Have you found a date yet?”

“A date as in…”

“As in someone to attend with you, considering you scared off poor Tara with all of your… hullabaloo.”

Hullabaloo?

I run a hand over my face and drop into the armchair in the corner of the living room. “I’m not taking a date.”

“Gabriel, I’ve verbalized my expectations on many occasions. The meal is paid for. I will not have an empty seat at the table, and I cannot call to change the number of guests. Find someone to go with you, as long as it isn’t that vulgar doctor friend of yours.”

I grit my teeth, not wanting to cause issues with my mother by saying something that will set her off. She’s my mother, after all. She made me. Raised me. And is completely disappointed in everything I’ve done with my life.

“Okay, Mother.”

“Don’t be late to Sunday dinner this week, either, Gabriel. Your father was awfully upset last week.”

I roll my eyes. Sunday dinner. How I wish Sundays didn’t exist at all…

“I will be there.”

“And make sure your shirt isn’t wrinkled. It looked like it was run over by a tractor a few weeks back.”

“Yes, Mother.”

---