My general practitioner, the one who saved my life by ordering the stress test that discovered my blocked arteries when we both thought my chest pains were acid reflux. That doctor.
He was at a nearby Pret a Manger.
I was picking up a sandwich to go. He was standing at a table off in a corner, chomping away, staring out into space. His office is right around the corner so it wasn’t weird to see him. It was a little weird that he was just staring like that. Standing. Alone. The guy who basically saved my life. But at least he got out for lunch, I guess. I took my sandwich back to my office. To eat, sitting down. At my desk. Alone.
Maybe I should’ve gone over and said hey. But what if he didn’t recognize me? The doctor who saved my life is like: “Oh, um, and… who’re you again?” I could’ve yelled: “Hey, doc! It’s me! Remember? That guy whose life you saved!”
“How’s your sandwich?”