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It's a tough learning curve. He's a brand new resident at a tough hospital in a city that, sometimes, feels like it could swallow him whole. He misses the sea, misses being able to go home and get his Baba's cooking when it suits him. There's so many tourists. There's so much noise.
For the last few months, its felt like New Orleans could close over his head.
Still, it's not all bad. He's got a little apartment on the top floor of a building on the edge of the French Quarter, and the food's good -- better than good -- and, eventually, he thinks he's going to be the kind of doctor that he desperately wants to be. And then there's the music and the liquor, and all of the reasons why the place is thronged on a Friday night. After his shift, Robby goes home to shower and change, and then he heads out, to a little bar that he likes that has live jazz and a decent kitchen. He'll hang out for a few hours, get dinner, listen to some music and, with any luck, he'll run into a handful of people he knows and find someone to go home with.
And it's hours later, and his belly's full, and he's slightly drunk when he sees a familar sillhouette at the end of the bar. He stares, for a moment, to make sure he hasn't got it wrong, but he'd know that profile anywhere. He's spent years thinking about it, how than man had looked when he leaned in to kiss him. How he'd wished for more.
"Holy shit," he says, walking up behind the guy's stool. "Jack Abbot. In the flesh."
For the last few months, its felt like New Orleans could close over his head.
Still, it's not all bad. He's got a little apartment on the top floor of a building on the edge of the French Quarter, and the food's good -- better than good -- and, eventually, he thinks he's going to be the kind of doctor that he desperately wants to be. And then there's the music and the liquor, and all of the reasons why the place is thronged on a Friday night. After his shift, Robby goes home to shower and change, and then he heads out, to a little bar that he likes that has live jazz and a decent kitchen. He'll hang out for a few hours, get dinner, listen to some music and, with any luck, he'll run into a handful of people he knows and find someone to go home with.
And it's hours later, and his belly's full, and he's slightly drunk when he sees a familar sillhouette at the end of the bar. He stares, for a moment, to make sure he hasn't got it wrong, but he'd know that profile anywhere. He's spent years thinking about it, how than man had looked when he leaned in to kiss him. How he'd wished for more.
"Holy shit," he says, walking up behind the guy's stool. "Jack Abbot. In the flesh."
