Not again.

Most people can proudly boast they've never broken a bone—or if they have, it was something cool like a biker accident or being mugged in a Walmart parking lot. But me? I'm a magnet for bad luck. I could breathe and the sky would fall. I've broken my hip, my ass-bone, the base of my thumb, and the bridge of my nose, all by the tender age of twenty-three. Now, I'm in an urgent care center, praying to the Powers That Be that it's only a pulled muscle.

Somehow, I doubt it, but it doesn't stop me from casting my thoughts heavenward with the promise to do better in life. I can't afford to be out of work for another six to eight weeks. Since the start of the pandemic, I've been laid off, forced to move back home, and save up my unemployment money while I look for any way to get back on my feet. And now, here I am, lying on a random examination table in a dingy tiled room that smells like disinfectant, old people, and mold. Monitors beep, people scream like they're dying in battle, and nurses gossip past the curtains like no one else exists. We're ushered somewhere, forgotten while we patiently wait our turn to have an x-ray, receive a baggie of placebo pills, and are told to have a nice day as they take all of our money.

Still on the table, I stare at the flimsy square ceiling tiles as time stops moving. I pull out my phone to check the time and sigh. It's only been ten minutes, so I open a little fish-game app on my phone and wait for it to take its sweet time loading. I breeze through a few levels, get stuck, blow all my lives, and check the time again. This time, it's been a good half hour.

To be fair, medical facilities were already short staffed. Add underpaid for the nurses with a strong possibility for a lawsuit every time something goes wrong, and BAM! One less nurse to help the sick and injured. And on top of it all, the pandemic made everything infinitely slower. A two hour visit at an urgent care now lasted up to six hours, and the ER? I'd be there for a full day, assuming a room came available.

Much as I'd love to be on my merry way, I'm not a priority. Not only because I'm not ill, but also the fact I'm here all the time. I could fart and find myself with a random injury, and the moment I hobble my broken ass inside, the receptionist shakes her head before asking, "Again?"

I'm not going to mean like everyone else. For one thing, they'll see me when they see me, and being an every day post pandemic Karen is the fastest way to piss someone off. For another, I've been in and out of the doctor's office since childhood, so this is old news. I'm used to the wait.

Then, lo and behold, either because it's a gift from above or a curse, I feel a sneeze coming on. And what does my dumb-ass self try to do when pinching my nose doesn't work? I try to control the sneeze, thinking by some miracle it won't be so bad. So it builds up as I brace for impact before...ACHOO!

OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO IN LIFE TO DESERVE THIS KIND OF PAIN!

There's this moment where time conveniently stops to take a snapshot of my suffering, and I can't breathe. It's pain like no other, and I swear, child-birth couldn't possibly be this painful (I mean, maybe, but I've never actually had children? Besides, that's what drugs are for). I gasp, curl into the fetal position, and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping this was just an pulled muscle. Then another one sneaks up, and I'm ready to die because I can't survive a second round of this. And because I'm the definition of the crazy person who does the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, I try to make this sneeze less violent. And let me tell you, I feel like being stabbed would be preferable. I can't even cry because this shit hurts so bad, so I lie on the table as I try not to pass out. The last thing I need is to add a concussion to my list of bad luck. That, and blood on the floor is so the murder-mysteries 90s trope.

And thank baby Jesus, this is when the curtain zings open on the rack as I continue gasping like this is the best orgasm ever that I'm definitely not having. And what do you know, it's a new doctor, unaware of my history. He's every bit the guy you'd see on the cover of a GQ magazine—rock hard abs, black hair, two days without a shave, crystal-lake blue eyes, and a stethoscope as the kitchen sink thrown in. But see, this isn't Heaven, because I'm still hurting, and this Greek God is way out of my league. Maybe I can take a mental picture of him and bust out the toy later? I mean, once I'm feeling better. I don't want to come back and admit I made the injury worse by masturbating to a fantasy of Doctor Sexy over here.

He hooks his leg on the bar of the stool and expertly wheels it in front of the bed, sinks down into it like some graceful swan, and flashes a crinkly-eyed smile at me. He stares down at the screen, visibly swallows as he fights back the laugh I see bubbling up in the back of his throat because that's what everyone does when they meet me, clears his throat, and opens with a husky and formal, "Kelly Wanker, shit, I mean Wankum!"

I turn my head because that's the only part of my body I can move, blink a few times, and casually say, "Nice to meet you too, Doctor Asshole."

Yeah, I'm being a bitch, but I'm hurting and it's not nice to laugh at my unfortunate name. His face goes from model-tan to a deep tomato red, and if he gets any brighter, I might witness it pop off and roll across the floor somewhere. Is it possible to go to jail for accidentally killing your doctor from mortification? Will they think I shoved a ten-inch awl in an unspeakable place, camping out at the hospital as the disgruntled woman who was wooed and rejected by such a beautiful man?

Nah.

I'll claim it was the granny in the next curtailed section over, who smells overwhelmingly like cat urine covered up by peppermint oil. Doctor Asshole's expensive cologne can't even mask that stench. So now, I'm being subjected to hospital bullying, torture by smelly people, and a slightly more manageable pain. That's what my tombstone should say: not 'death by falling off the stripper pole,' but 'Plain Jane asphyxiated by second-hand cats.' Yep, that'll go over well at my funeral.

And because my vision suddenly has superpowers, I can see beads of sweat rolling off the sides of his temples and into the collar of his purple pressed Oxford shirt. I giggle before whimpering, but seriously, it was just a Fruedian slip. We've all done it. Besides, with his looks, he's probably had half the women in the city throw themselves in front of a bus just to be treated by him. He'll forget about this in ten minutes when the next patient shows up.

I take a slow breath and count to eight as I release it. My back and ribcage are only steadily pounding now, but I didn't die. "Dude, relax. Everyone makes fun of my name."

He closes his eyes in one of those poses where the Heavens part and angels sing as light shines upon his squared face, and then he takes one of those cleansing breaths before he tries with the upcoming apology meant to placate my bullied soul. "Kelly, I'm so sorry. That was incredibly unprofessional. I swear, I didn't mean to say that out loud."

Does this mean I can sue for emotional distress? That's it. I could make bank for that these days and live the American dream of getting rich from hurt feelings. But I'm not like that. And he really does seem sorry. So I put on my proverbial big-girl panties, pocket my pride, and shrug. "Don't worry about it. I'm more concerned about the pain."

His face turns back to a healthier color and he puts on his best smolder. He's attentive and back to professional mode like nothing happened. "Right. I'm Blake Cole."

The cliché name makes me want to burst into a fit of giggles. Seriously? What mother hated her son so much that she wanted to give him a bad boy name? She might as well have named him Aiden or Chett. No, not Chett. He'd have to have blond hair and a surfboard. Blake definitely couldn't pull that look off. Besides, who am I to judge? I was named after a wanker.

Then he continues as if my mind didn't just wander off faster than a toddler in a park. "So I see you're here for back pain?"

Why do medical professionals always ask the obvious? I'm not here because I'm healthy.

Out loud: "Yes."

"Okay, can you tell me how you hurt yourself?"

About that... "Nope."

His brow furrows into this little line until they become cute little caterpillars dancing over his eyes. Or maybe they're attacking each other, but he somehow makes it sexy. "What do you mean? Did you fall or have an accident?"

This is the part where I say I was mugged or fell off the stripper pole. For the life of me, I don't know why I'm not a better liar. I shake my head with a feeble "Nope" as I wince because now, I can feel the rib wiggling and oh my god, I want this to stop. Bones aren't supposed to wiggle. When the pain dulls into a steady march, I launch into the story that I practiced on the way here. "I was reaching for a ball of yarn that rolled off my bed and onto the floor, felt my back pop, and then I wanted to die. But then, I realized that wasn't dying until a few minutes ago when I needed to sneeze. I tried to control it, but that only made it worse."

He blinks a few times with his hands frozen over his keyboard and stares at me like a deer caught in the headlights. Come to think of it, he actually looks more like an anime character with the blinking sounds and all. It's actually kind of cute when I imagine him like a caricature with awesome gelled spikes and a bearded baby face.

"So...you can't think of anything else you might have done? It's okay to tell me. I've heard it all."

Oh, screw you. My teeth grind for a moment at the thought of me doing something stupid and lying about it. "Trust me, as much as I'd love to tell you I hurt myself trying some new sex position, I literally hurt myself doing nothing."

"Oh."

There it is. That gaping shock emoji as the news sinks in. I could follow Princess Charm School to a T and still spill spaghetti on my white dress or trip over my tied Converse laces. I've just accepted my bad luck and the inevitable debt that comes from a lifetime of hospital bills. I can't do the exact math right this minute, but I'm sure they've collected at least a good million from me in my short lifetime already. If anything, this should make him jump with glee that I'm keeping him in business.

Having the perfect excuse to look away now, he feverishly types notes into his laptop before standing up and setting it on a little tray I didn't notice beside the exam table. He stands over me, sending a whiff of that cologne, and suddenly, I become a hormonal nineteen-year-old virgin again who didn't lose it in the back of an old beat car. It's woodsy and masculine, making my pain a little bit worth it.

"Okay, I'd like for you to sit up so I can check your vitals and feel the area."

Oh, feel me? It's like I'm privy to something dirty in my own secret fantasy. Any other time, I could think of a million fun jokes about doctors and feeling their patients. Right now though, I'm only wondering if I can sit up. That seems impossible at the moment.

I carefully shift my legs, but the moment my hips move a smidge to the left, pain shoots through my back, making me gasp and scream like an insect on fire. My arms spasm at my sides, and it hurts to simply draw air as I tilt my head back. "I...need help."

Blake carefully grips my elbow and I mirror the movement. The second I move an inch, fire lances through my side as the bone shifts this time, making me squeal. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...

"You look like you're hurting," he remarks awkwardly.

Who gave this man a medical degree? I could have made that diagnosis, even without the help of Doctor Google.

"I am," I say through gritted teeth.

He removes his stethoscope from his neck and places the tips in his ears while he positions the diaphragm over my back. "Okay, big breath in."

I go through the motions. Big breath in, big breath out, lather, rinse, repeat. Then he removes it and prods my side. "Does this hurt?"

Would it hurt if I strangle him with the tubing? Of course it does! "Yes," I squeak.

"Can you lift your shirt and point out the area?"

Oh, if only he knew how kinky that sounded. Next, he'd be asking me to wear a white skirt, thigh-high boots, and strategically placed bandaids over my titties. No? Right, what am I thinking? I've read one too many steamy doctor and cock novels. I'm also pretty sure I remember a friend of mine once got fired for being a naughty nurse after forgetting her key card in the exam room. She said it was worth it, but I dunno. I prefer a steady paycheck and food that's more than top-ramen and Spaghettios in a can.

So I comply and lift my shirt, contorting my arm in a weird angle until I manage to find the squiggly rib. When I feel it pop, I say, "There."

He cocks his head to the side with a narrowed gaze, studying it like someone trying to figure out modern art at a museum. You know, those paintings where if you turn your head just right, you can see an elephant, but if you look at it a different way, it magically becomes a shoe. That look. "Well, there's no bruising. That's good. Besides the back pain, does it hurt to take a deep breath?"

I shake my head. That was the first thing I Googled. I've seen too many Netflix movies where a lung gets punctured and someone has to drive a pen into the chest. Blood spurts out and the person still dies. No thanks.

Blake continues, oblivious to my random train of thought. "Okay, I need you to do something to aggravate the injury."

I almost feel bad at his attempt to do his job. I'm pretty sure facing a hissing tiger isn't as dangerous as this is about to get for him, especially when I eye the scalpel on the tray. He's got to be joking. I mean, I look like I'm hurting, I've said 'ow' enough times, and can barely move. What else does he want: an arm, a leg, and my soul? Or does he want my first-born child too?

He sighs and gives me a look that says he's ready to aggravate the injury himself. "Kelly, I need to assess your range of motion."

Oh, man. Okay, I'm used to this. Besides, if I break anything else, I'm in a facility full of doctors. I pinch my lips together and bend forward an inch at a time, but now my back suddenly decides to cooperate. I lean from side to side until, "Ow, ow, ow, oh my God, ow!"

"Alright, we're done with that," Blake says quickly, steadying me as I throw my fist to my mouth, forgetting that the mask is blocking me from biting it. "Take a moment to recover."

More like I'll need ten years and some weed while I ask myself which god I pissed off in my past life. This is definitely worse than the broken hip.

Blake takes his laptop and sits back down, typing as he speaks. His jovial mood is gone, and honestly, it's kind of a relief to see him shed the fake bedside manner. "I'm ordering some X-rays to rule out a fracture. Then we'll discuss pain management."

I swivel my feet around and mentally congratulate myself for not squealing. The hard part will be standing, walking to Radiology, and leaving a urine sample without getting stuck in a sitting position. Blake takes my arm as I slowly make my way across the familiar hallways. His firm grip lights fireworks in my chest like it's the Fourth of July, making me more self-conscious than ever.

And I swear, as I hobble through the Urgent Care center, everyone gives me this stink-eye for being attached to this piece of man candy. Even the nurses I know can't resist that look that says, 'Bitch, I'll stab you for touching my man.'

I do my best to ignore it, which is easy since I can't go more than two steps without my back seizing up, and finally, we're in Radiology. Blake leaves me to undress, but doesn't quite close the door all the way. I groan, thanking the stars I'm still on my feet so I can take the three steps to shut it.

Just as I'm closing my hand over the knob, Blake's voice carries through the hallway with another, and I can't help pressing my ear against the door. I roll my eyes as a woman giggles like she's Barbie. Even worse, I think I know the owner of that voice. She's the receptionist obsessed with Starbucks. She also takes forever to help people, more concerned with her phone than the sick and dying.

"So, are you busy later? The girls and I get together every Saturday night, and we'd love to show you around the city."

In other words, she'd probably like to show him down her pants.

"No thanks. I have plans."

Impressive. His response is firm and leaves no room for doubt. The woman isn't deterred, and tries again. "What about lunch tomorrow? Or next Saturday?"

I almost snort when he cuts her off. "Look, I'm sure you're a nice girl, but let's get something straight. I don't mingle with co-workers after hours. I come to work, I go home, and I keep my two lives separate."

She scoffs, and I can imagine her doing a little hair flip and a dramatic eye roll. "You're acting like a prude. It's a drink, not sex."

My mouth falls open at her audacity. This was always a place of business for me with faces I knew, but the staff hitting on each other never occurred to me. If I believed everything on television, everyone would be involved in an orgy, passionate affairs, and probably have dozens of STDS. Not that Hollywood will mention the safe sex part; unless there was an accidental pregnancy.

In real life, jobs had rules to prevent broken hearts and HR complaints. Did people follow them? No clue. I'm unemployed, and even if I had a job, people walk into me like I'm invisible. Women like that receptionist with her honey highlights, perfect teeth, and glamorous makeup could ignite an entire room with a pout and runway pose.

Blake surprises me as he shuts her down, speaking in a cold tone. "I don't do desperate or loose. My friends have enough class to understand no means no and to do better than chase someone for their looks and money. Go find a different sugar daddy."

Ouch. I'd feel the wind of that bitch slap overseas. Suddenly, I'm reminded of the unobtainable jock in high school that girls would fall over themselves for as they maintained a status in a completely different stratosphere. I wouldn't be surprised if he rode a motorcycle or wore a leather jacket. Even better would be tattoos.

I don't have a chance to let my mind wander or listen to the rest of the conversation though, because that's when the door opens without warning, smacking me in the face and sending me to the floor with a shriek. The wind is knocked out of me, and this time, the impact from my back cracking against the floor is so hard, dizziness washes over me, sending me into the dark abyss.