The scent of antiseptic always clung to my clothes, even after I left the hospital. Something about that smell—sharp, sterile, too clean—always made me feel as if I were still there but the moment I opened the glass door of that small pharmacy, everything shifted. The smell of antiseptic was replaced by the soft fragrance of soap and paper and behind the counter, there she was.
Her head slightly tilted down, hair falling over part of her face, while her fingers folded papers with a quiet rhythm. Every time I came here, I tried to look composed, professional, like a doctor who came for business but every single time, I failed.
“Dr. Aiden,” she said lightly, almost teasing. “It’s time for your midday dose.”
I exhaled slowly, placing the prescription on the glass counter. “Don’t start again,” I said briefly, trying to sound flat. But my heartbeat refused to cooperate. It always sped up the moment I heard her voice.
I watched her quietly. Her movements were slow, almost ritualistic as she checked the prescription. Her fingers—slender, deft. Her eyes—serious, as if she were calculating something far more delicate than a dosage. Then, as always, she scribbled something small at the bottom of the paper. I already knew what it was, but still, I waited.
When she slipped the paper back into my hand, her lips curved faintly. “All done. Please follow the dosage instructions, Doctor.”
I wanted to scold her—or at least pretend to—but my voice refused to come out. I only managed to look down and read the little line she’d written at the bottom corner:
“Take one wife’s kiss three times a day.”
I quickly folded the paper, slid it into my coat pocket, and cleared my throat.
“One day you’ll make me lose my reputation at the hospital,” I muttered, though even to my own ears, it sounded almost gentle.
She smiled and God, that smile was the only thing that ever managed to peel away the exhaustion that clung to me.
That night, during the hospital staff meeting, I sat in the front row. The head of the division was reviewing patient prescription reports. Everything went as usual until one particular file was projected onto the screen. A single line at the bottom caught everyone’s attention.
“Take one wife’s kiss three times a day.”
The room fell silent. A few doctors turned to glance at me. Some chuckled. Others pretended to cough. I only bowed my head, pressing my fingertips to my temple. Heat crept up my face—not out of shame, but because I knew exactly who was behind it.
Ten minutes later, I was already in the parking lot, typing on my phone with slightly trembling fingers.
You’re impossible. Your little prescription made it to the board meeting today. Dr. Ellis read it out loud.
I could already picture her behind that pharmacy counter, trying not to laugh. Damn it. Even when I was irritated, I couldn’t really be mad at her.
They prescribed me one thing, go home early before my wife writes another note.
I locked my phone, exhaled deeply, and started the car. The streetlights reflected off the windshield, casting a soft orange glow that made my thoughts drift somewhere else. I should’ve been annoyed but somehow, my chest felt warm. Maybe because, behind her teasing, she always knew exactly when I needed a pause.
When I arrived in front of her pharmacy, she was already waiting outside, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. The store lights were off, only my car’s headlights illuminating her face.
I stepped out without saying anything, just stood before her, looking into the eyes that had always been the only place I could stop pretending to be strong.
My hand slipped into my coat pocket, brushing against the paper I still kept—the little prescription with her handwriting. “For someone who loves writing strange prescriptions,” I said quietly, “you must know this is the only medicine that actually works.” Before she could reply, I leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. Just for a moment. But enough to make me forget all the laughter from the meeting earlier.