Worth

Birds of a feather flock however they want to flock

Francesca's POV

"Syringe, please," Doctor Rogers, our surgery dictator, said, and I reached for the syringe on the tools plate and handed it over. We were ten in the room today, gathered in a semi-circle with Doctor Rogers in the middle, so everyone could see him. He was one of the finest doctors in the country, and he came once in a while to provide guidance, so we were kind of the luckiest batch in five years to have him as our dictator.

"After the anesthetic, we apply pressure on the lower abdomen," he explained.

"...I watched as Doctor Rogers pressed the lower abdomen of the lab mannequin with his gloves on. He went through the process for what seemed like the third time. There were tons of questions thrown at him, but he managed to answer every one of them efficiently.

We were all focused, eager to learn from the master. No Einsteins or Zuckerbergs were in the room, but we had brains and each of us had a plan for our future.

"...For an eight-year course, it had cost me a lot: time, sleep, money, and energy. But by next year, I'd be graduating, and all this knowledge would be put to good use.

"Check on the patient frequently, to ensure they're still breathing," Doctor Rogers said as he went through his key notes.

We all started exiting the room, and I stretched off my gloves and removed the surgical mask from my mouth. I dropped them into the bin as I stepped out of the room.

"Anne!" I heard a voice call from behind.

I turned and saw David, the guy who had been stalking me since I moved here. He was a final-year Med student and a Pharmacist. He was smart, spontaneous, and good-looking, but sadly, he wasn't my type.

His light brown skin came into full view as he walked towards me.

"Hey, Dav," I smirked, sighing.
"Isn't she beautiful?" he said, only a few steps away now. I smiled as he came closer.

"Good morning," he greeted me, placing a swift kiss on my cheek, the smell of fresh shaving cream wafting in the air. I did let him get that close to me, so he wouldn't be left out.

"Good morning," I replied dryly, walking towards the locker room.

"...He continued, "So, what are you doing this weekend?" For a Nigerian, his English accent was really sound, not surprising since he was raised in London. I did love it when he talked, but he could be annoying, like right now.

"Work!" I answered, already standing in front of the locker room.
He furrowed his eyebrows at me, and I pouted as I opened the door, entered, and shut it behind me.

"You and I both know you don't work on Saturdays," he half-yelled from outside.

"...I muttered, "Dav Sebapoor," as I shimmied out of my scrubs and threw a plain black dress over my head, which landed over my knee. At only five feet two inches, the dress couldn't be too short, I assured myself, crossing my handbag over my left shoulder.

"Doctors don't lie, Anne," he reminded me, preferring to use my middle name.

I opened the door to see him smirking. "It means 'get out," I replied, knowing a few words in his Igbo dialect, even though I wasn't Nigerian myself. I rolled my eyes and walked past him.

"I know Swahili too," he countered.

"Yeah, the few words you learned on Google," I laughed.

"No, Anne," he insisted. "I studied pharmacology in Kenya."

"...I scoffed. "Yeah, right."

We walked out to the parking lot, bickering all the way. When we reached my car, I unlocked the door and climbed in, but he held onto the knob.