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why is there no manual for the hopelessly unattractive - wallyflower
why is there no manual for the hopelessly unattractive
The rotation is over and I didn't say anything. I think I would have if the opportunity arose, but it was hard to even get to see him this week. I did what I think of as the brave, stupid thing and managed to get myself a seat in his operating room one day so that I could breathe the same air and give us an opportunity to talk, at least once, for some length before I left for good. I say give "us" an opportunity because I was convinced, for the better part of these last two weeks, that he liked me. Now I don't know. Maybe he does or maybe he likes me enough only to look at me, and never to even entertain the idea that we could end up together? I don't know. I need more data. I don't have enough data and I don't know enough about him to say anything. Nothing he said, in the operating room or outside of it, has given me any indication of his feelings and I'm forced to acknowledge that despite the overwhelming evidence in its favor, I may have fabricated the idea of his interest in me.

Still, the memories are precious--staring across the conference room and during that first day in the OR, snatches of conversation, finding him in the emergency room one day, both of us lingering near the nurses' station and catching glances of each other--and the idea that someone like him exists in this place--someone truly Catholic and broad-minded and intelligent and someone who's a doctor as well--gives me a little hope. I won't deny that part of his appeal is that he's older and already quite settled, but mostly I think it was his eloquence and his kindness--his apparent demeanor and his reputation for kindness--that sold me as much as my conviction of his interest in me. I feel with every day that passes that I've become one of those ridiculous young women who fall in love with their bosses and convince themselves that their youth is some sort of temptation, when it's more likely that it's a big deterrent.
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