Kenneth fought against twenty reasons not to call Monday while Monday battled the twenty reasons she should forget him.

"Tell me what kind of man lets you get in a taxi and doesn't call to see if you got home. That taxi driver could have chopped me up and thrown me in the Seine ni vu, ni connu [neither seen nor known, french expression]. Do you see what I told you, Luce? The man just wanted to profit from my body."

"Monday, you profited too, don't tell me the sex wasn't good the second time around."

Monday crossed her arms and pursed her lips to mutter, "Koda kobaje [so-so, it was okay]."

Luce chuckled and clapped her hands, "okay, you say. I've never seen you daydream and drool so much since forever."

"I don't drool," Monday retorted.

"No, you just sit with a vague stare with your mouth opened like an airport waiting for mosquitos to land."

"S'onsiere ni? [are you crazy?]." Monday exclaimed and kissed her teeth while thinking of her little lie. Kenneth surprised Monday; she didn't expect the man who appeared stuck up to be such a kinkster, nor did she imagine what he could do with his fingers or tongue.

"Listen, Monday. I'm running late. We can carry this conversation tonight."

Luce left; she didn't want to be late. The transportation issue to explain one's tardiness was not enough for the doctor, who thought people should leave home even earlier. Doctor Watkins was strict, even more so than the other doctors in the service.

He inspected rooms and made everyone do inventories. Saving money was the first way to improve. The doctor wished for everyone to be more efficient. He preferred staff having shorter shifts to allow them to rest than having nurses and doctors look like the last time they got some sleep was the first time Emmanuel Macron was elected, and slim jeans were still in fashion.

Some were happier with the shifting tides in the service, while Luce had the impression of working more. Having shorter shifts didn't diminish the workload that still had to be accomplished in the time frame.

While Luce started her day, Monday sat in front of a blank word document. Ideas were scarce; the woman faced a writing wall. She wished to step out of her comfort zone, and she didn't know with what story she could do it.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to write."

To make things worse, Kenneth invited himself into her imagination.

"Leave me alone, Kenneth."

"Then stop thinking of me."

Yes, she thought of him. Monday thought of the man so hard she was sure his ears had caught fire. The woman felt a fool and almost ashamed. Why did she have the impression of having some unfinished business with the speaker?

In New York, Kenneth watched his alarm switch to 4 AM before turning to look at the ceiling. He had let the week pass before realizing his error. He should have called her; he should have done it before leaving or sent a text message.

That's what most people do, right?

The man wondered what state of mind he was in when he remembered, Monday flustered him. She bruised Kennths' ego when she pushed him away by refusing for him to call her and insinuating the man was baiting her for booty calls.

Kenneth felt cornered when the woman asked him what came after. Of course, nothing would come, at least not yet. They barely knew each other. What did the woman expect?

Monday came off exacting behind the hotel bedroom door.

At that moment Kenneth was in the let's-see-how-it-goes, shall-we stance, and Monday took him aback with her abrupt reaction.

The man sat up sleepless, wondering what she was doing and if she had the slightest thought in his respect. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and scrolled.

How would she react if he called?

No, he couldn't do that. He imagined how the woman would verbally run him down. He needed a more discreet gesture that would imply his intent.

Thus, the man took it to Twitter. All he needed to do was show Monday he didn't scrap her.

Monday's last post was: When your needs don't meet your expectations and your expectations aren't your needs. She followed the tweet up with a Gif of a black woman waving something off and saying whatever.

Kenneth clicked on the thumbs up. He liked the other two posts before as well.

There you go, thought the man, Monday was sure to see who liked the post. The man laid back, reassured before realizing the account he used was his blue-badged official and that all his followers would get the infamous Kenneth Mosely liked this post prompt. The man went back on her profile and unliked the Tweets.

Kenneth Mosely was a brand, and though there would be no consequences. Kenneth thought of how people would interpret seeing him liking a random quote, a photo with a Violet syrup, vanilla and tapioca bubble tea with hashtag fuel, and the gif of Jim Carey typing like a maniac with the caption writing in progress. The man let himself submerged by classist and elitist ponderings.

No, he could not be associated with a tuna sandwich writer. Monday understood that when she saw her Tweets get plus one before being minused by the orator.

What is wrong with this man? Monday thought.

Kenneth was an idiot. Why was she wasting thoughts on him?

In the meantime, Luce checked drips, gave medication, changed pouches, and lifted headrests. Lunchtime came as salvation.

"Oh, thank goodness, I'm starving," she announced as she posed her tray.

"Tell me about it. I had to drink a Red Bull to help me wake up," Catherine said.

Luce shook her head, "Catherine, don't fall into the taurine aid trap."

"My body isn't used to these long pauses. I wonder where Doctor Watkins is going with this."

"Oh, look, speak of the devil," Luce said as the doctor came and sat down with a colleague. Of course, he had to be the one sitting in parallel and to have a clear view of Luce.

"Too bad Melody isn't here," Catherine added.

"Thank goodness, I can't handle her fangirling over him anymore," Luce said.

"You should see her during rotas. She's all doctor Watkins this, doctor Watkins that, while battering lashes," Catherine said with a coy voice while mimicking their colleague.

"The man is a teeny-weeny bit interesting. A woman shouldn't fawn over him like that. I mean, he just has one dimple," Luce said, looking at the doctor's table direction only to find the man's eyes fixing her. He smiled as though he heard.

"Look at him. You'd think he has supersonic ears or something. He's acting as though he heard."

"Oh, Luce, I know your fetish. The impaired dimple has got you hasn't it."

"No, he's attractive in the standard looks catalog, but he's not my type. I'll leave the youngsters to it."

Catherine turned back to take a glimpse at the man, "I don't know. He looks like the type of guy to like mature women. Do you see him with twenty-four-year-old Melody Munos?"

"Well, I doubt thirty-seven-year-old me fits the bill either. Men like the young and flexible, who do remakes of celebrity sex tapes in bed. Not a woman reminding them she has her biological clock going ding-dong."

Doctor Watkins coughed and banged a hand on his chest. Luce watched how he gulped down his glass of water and turned his head away to listen to his colleague.

There was something particular about the man, and Luce wanted to check if her hunch was correct.

She waited for the man to return his gaze to her to say, "I hope he has something more to offer in bed with his knowledge of the human anatomy."

The man's dimple sucked right in at the instant Luce finished her sentence.

From then on, Luce made sure never to face him when she spoke. She didn't know how he did it, but she was sure doctor Watkins heard what she said. And doctor Watkins didn't wait to get an explanation from the nurse who avoided him like one does cholera.

The elevator was the spot where he finally could speak to her.

"Are you avoiding me, nurse Olowe?"

"No, doctor."

"Then why do I get the impression you walk in the opposite direction when you see me andㅡ."

"I feel spied on, and I think you're not playing fair," Luce replied while staring at her clogs.

The doctor frowned.

Luce tried to clarify her statement, "there have been a lot of changes, and when I ask everyone, some ideas came from private discussions. Somehow everything became a reality as if someone heard."

"Alright, you, win. I read on lips."

"What? Why," Luce slid her head back and gave the doctor a side glance.

The doctor brought a hand to his ear and took out what looked like an ear pod, but Luce had enough patients suffering from hearing loss to know what it was.

"You can't hear," she exclaimed.

The elevator door opened, and people climbed in, but Luce's eyes remained on the doctor who replaced the earpiece and looked right ahead of him till the door opened on his floor. Luce would have followed if Melody didn't wait for the doctor welcome committee style.

She had to wait until the end of her shift to cross the doctor in the parking lot to pursue the conversation.

"So you read everything everyone says?"

"Yes."

"And you don't hear a thing otherwise?"

"No, I'm not totally deaf. I learned to lip-read and sign in case I lose all my hearing capacity."

"I'm sorry you have this condition, but it doesn't give you the right to eavesdrop on what everyone is saying. Some things said are meant to stay private," Luce said.

"I know, my apologies," dr. Watkins said while he tapped on the top of his motorcycle helmet.

Luce nodded and began to walk away.

"Nurse Olowe, my knowledge of the human anatomy does come on handy."

"Private, I said," Luce replied while hurrying her steps to her car without looking back at the man.