The wooden medical interior office door burst opened, puking her inside. The fresh air conditioner directly swam inside her nostrils, sliding down towards her lungs. Without minding anything nor did the sensations orchestrating in her chest, she neared him.
"How's she doing?"
His attention was interrupted by the woman who stormed inside. Seated in a straight back, while he held in between middle finger and thumb a mechanical pen, as the index finger is getting away, he pushed his middle finger forward, and then mechanical pen spun in hand, then he looked at her upward, as she replied his sunken brown eyes within zeroing gape. He paused their glances for a while. I can't breathe, she thought, as hot air swiveled inside the dark blue scrub worn.
"She's resting."
He let go of her eyes and went back leaning on the headrest of his chair.
"You did your job very well."
She started moving her white tennis shoes towards him, while he remained seated.
"I have left no choice."
He stood up, meeting the woman inclining towards him.
"Congrats. I'm so proud of you."
Her compassionate rounded eyes stocked on him.
She curled her arms around his neck, touching the collar of the white short-sleeved shirt worn, as their eyes brandished deep aggressive stares.
"I love you."
He met her eyes with gentle hesitation— hesitant to end the moment.
"I love you too.
Her heart stopped for a minute, seconds seemed so slow as both eyes magnetized. It is as if they're at the peak of heaven. She'd seen solace in the depth of the pair of hollow organs interacting hers. His profound stares caressed her soul, followed by the weakening of her core. He stepped a foot backward, 'til he was bumped onto the examination table. He was trapped. She began moving her fingers on every corner of his neck. Heat rushed from her stomach towards her chest, she could feel the flip of billions of butterflies within her tummies. Time paced slowly, his manly hypnotic scent began filling her nostrils, almost brain death. Their closure was no inches— at that tiny juncture, his lips gently brushed over hers. It took compassionately slowly, like a person scared to torn his belongings. His delicate lips were a great conqueror, way more valiant than Alexander. Waves of warmth fragrance dominated all over her body in an instinct, she felt fragile. Her knees melted down. His manly aroma... lulled quietness in between them... she craved for more.
A minute set, when his voicemail rang.
"Connecting to Dr. Austin Lazure."
Their eye interaction was canceled by the ringing of the telephone. He picked up the call.
"This is Dr. Austin Lazure speaking, how may I help you?" he enunciated in monotone.
"I'll be there in a minute."
The call ended.
"I have to go now."
He hurriedly picked up the white coat hanging on at the back of the chair and wore the stethoscope. He didn't wait for her response nor did he give another eye contact with her. He wore the white coat as he moved his feet towards the door leaving his office. His feeling was inaccurate. He didn't understand why his chest wouldn't stop from thumping. His chest was getting tighter, and suffocation built up. He's scared... but why?
She was left speechless and hanging— still trapped in her wildest fantasy. The love... that only took place in the world of imaginations— barely one-sided. She felt a hard tight pang darted on her chest— needling and eating her immune. She felt weak, frail, and fragile. She gasped to hold a breath. It hurt a lot, she thought. At the very moment, she wanted to slap her face to awaken in reality— but not. It's a fool of her, hoping there is a place where both of their hearts are intertwined. She was stocked. She unleashed three heavy gasping sounds. She ventured her eyes... paused... to the piece of paper left lying unhurt in his table with the mechanical pen on top.
Her long pointed neatly manicured fingers plucked the piece of paper from the table. The soft vellum surface and smooth texture of the paper felt so light in her grip.
Gray pigments were connected and displayed from the sketch. She couldn't discern for herself when she felt a sudden shot of unfamiliar dislike, and insecurity as the sketch drew a familiar image— those pairs of innocent eyes from the portrait compelled her jealousy. The slant deep-set eyes squinted evoking her profound hatred— those single eyelids that were longer in width, as it tapered to the point of the tear duct and the outer eye, as the exterior of the cornea under the top and bottom lids. She moved her eyes to its nose having flattered dorsum and flared at the alae with a less defined nasal tip, down to its cherry-figured aesthetic plumping on the top and bottom lips. The sketch was undone, but the basic facial figurines are enough to give its features— eyes, nose, and lips.
She looked at the portrait green-eyed. She felt the dosage of spite contaminating her chest. Not a minute passed, she found herself tightly gripping the paper until sounds of clicking and buckling were unleashed— the paper crumpled in her hands.
"Jasmine."
She released the paper and left it crumpled on the table. Bulky footsteps escaped as the door slammed shut.
***
In every click and flashes, she posted in different ways from standing poses, facing the camera, three-quarters pose, against a wall, sitting poses, leaning forward, and angled sitting. Her satin long white overall clothes, that was belted with girdle gleamed every shutter of the camera.
"Ah, excuse me. Miss. Shakkira, you got a call. It said it's an emergency."
It was in the middle of the shoot when Jackie, the assistant of the photographer and in charge of Shakkira's demeanor interrupted. She held the mobile phone in hand.
"Okay, let's take a break," Ate Layla, the what she's called, and the photographer enunciated.
She put down the DSLR camera and heaved a sigh.
Shakkira took the phone and went directly to the restroom, which was located beside the studio for privacy, and away from the staff.
"Shakkira Ballesteros of QYC Fashion Magazine speaking. How may I help you?"
Shakkira Ballesteros was an editorial model, a high fashion model of QYC Fashion Magazine, photographed under AEH Films and Studio.
"Sha--kk…" The voice was rasped, cracked, and almost couldn't be heard.
"Hello? If you don't mind Madame, your line has no signal. I can't hear your voice. Will you mind going an an elevated area? Somewhere…"
Silence replied from the other side.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
She repeated the greeting for the nth time. The other line remained in silence, causing her bile to rolled up inside her belly; anticipation filled in her notions.
"Is it her?"
"Well, I guess maybe. The receptionist can't be wrong. It's her."
"Shhh…"
Confusion. Fear. The exact definition of what the threading of emotions piled in her chest. The familiar voice she overheard at the opposite line…
It couldn't be…