Code Blues by Melissa Yi Page B
Authors: Melissa Yi
Tags: Suspense, Chick lit, Romance, Medical, Women's Fiction, doctor, nurse, hospital, Women's Adventure, Suspense & Thriller, romance adult fiction, Emergency Medicine, romance action adventure, Medical Care, womens fiction chicklit, physician, medical humour, medical humor, emergency, emergency room, womens commercial fiction, medical conditions, medical care abroad, medical claims, physician author, medical student, medical consent, medical billing, medical coming of age, suspense action, emergency management, medical controversies, physician competence, resident, intern, emergency response, hospital drama, hospital employees, emergency care, doctor of medicine, womens drama, emergency medical care, emergency department, medical crisis, womens fiction with romantic elements, physician humor, womens pov, womens point of view, medical antagonism, emergency services, medical ignorance, emergency entrance, romance action, emergency room physician, hospital building, emergency assistance, doctor nurse, medical complications, hospital administration, physician specialties, womens sleuth, hope sze, dave dupuis, david dupuis, morris callendar, notorious doc, st josephs hospital, medical resident
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of my back. His face was calm, his
voice as smooth as Scotch. "See you back in the salt mines." His
hand urged me down the hall, toward the emerg doors.
Seeing Alex like this,
assured and sexy, I could totally see him as a doctor, not to
mention as a boyfriend. It made me forget the previous, less
desirable incarnations. He was a one-man Jeopardy game. I'll take the Foot-Kissing for $100,
Alex.
I felt like a kid playing hooky when we
burst out of the automatic black doors. I'd even been holding my
breath. I burst out giggling.
Alex hooked his arm around my shoulders. Our
hips were touching. His fingers grazed my bare arm. I took a deep
breath and smiled at him.
It was a fine, bright July day. A few people
ate, chatted, and smoked at the picnic tables across from us, next
to the human resources building. We wound our way up the paved road
and curved past the brick Annex building. No orientation today.
Then we ambled through the parking lot between the old, steepled
church and the metro station tagged by spray paint. Our feet fell
out of step a few times, but for the most part, we walked well
together.
I cast a longing look at the fruit market,
but Alex steered me to the right, along Côte-des-Neiges. A storm of
people exited a blue-and-white STCUM bus and cut around us.
He pointed to the store
displaying various baguettes and round loaves of bread. The gold
leaf sign read " Au Pain
Doré ." When he pushed open the door, a
bell jingled, and a woman squeezed by us with a baguette held
protectively against her chest.
The store smelled like
flour and jam. It was so crowded that people grabbed tickets from a
red dispenser. A girl in a forest green apron called,
" Quarante-huit! Quarante-huit, s'il te
plait !" while one of her comrades grabbed
bread out of the window and another used silver tongs to pluck a
fruit tart out of the display case. I slowed to admire the pains au chocolat , the
éclairs, the crèmes
brulées , the little round cheesecakes, the
tiny chocolate cakes, the palm-sized blueberry tarts...
Alex laughed. "Want one?"
I sighed. "All of them. This is
wonderful."
He shrugged. "This is Montreal."
I looked around at all the people, lined up
for their daily bread and the occasional sweet. He was right. To
them, it was perfectly normal to visit a bakery, a fruit market,
and a fishmonger instead of a supermarket, even though they had to
line up at each store. Food was worth the time and effort. Of
course, there was a Metro supermarket right on the corner of
Côte-des-Neiges and Queen Mary, but the average person still
apparently respected and enjoyed small-scale cuisine. My
ex-boyfriend, Ryan, had a roommate from Montreal who hypothesized
that the reason French people were thin wasn't so much because of
the wine they drank, the olive oil they used. It was because they
ate good quality food instead of stuffing themselves on junk. There
were no studies to back up his claim, but looking around this
bakery, I half-believed it.
I had my first inkling I could make a home
here. The city had seemed malignant and alien at first encounter,
but maybe Montreal could teach me something, too.
Alex squeezed my hand. I inhaled the yeasty
air and felt carefree, like I was falling into the jounce and easy
rhythm of summer in the city.
Instead of taking a
ticket, Alex led me along the length of the store. In the back,
they had a little boucherie . No sweets, but
refrigerated cases of lunch meat, cheese, and olives. A piece of
paper stuck to the brick wall advertised the midi-express : your choice of a
sandwich, a drink, and the dessert of the day, all for about $6.
Alex made a little bow. "Your lunch, Madame ."
I made a face. I'm still a
mademoiselle. I chose the rosbif . A guy in a white apron and
matching cap swiftly prepared both our paninis.
"And now we have a picnic," said Alex. He
insisted on carrying my paper bag lunch as well as his own, and he
made a point of opening the door for me.
Alex guided me up a little side
voice as smooth as Scotch. "See you back in the salt mines." His
hand urged me down the hall, toward the emerg doors.
Seeing Alex like this,
assured and sexy, I could totally see him as a doctor, not to
mention as a boyfriend. It made me forget the previous, less
desirable incarnations. He was a one-man Jeopardy game. I'll take the Foot-Kissing for $100,
Alex.
I felt like a kid playing hooky when we
burst out of the automatic black doors. I'd even been holding my
breath. I burst out giggling.
Alex hooked his arm around my shoulders. Our
hips were touching. His fingers grazed my bare arm. I took a deep
breath and smiled at him.
It was a fine, bright July day. A few people
ate, chatted, and smoked at the picnic tables across from us, next
to the human resources building. We wound our way up the paved road
and curved past the brick Annex building. No orientation today.
Then we ambled through the parking lot between the old, steepled
church and the metro station tagged by spray paint. Our feet fell
out of step a few times, but for the most part, we walked well
together.
I cast a longing look at the fruit market,
but Alex steered me to the right, along Côte-des-Neiges. A storm of
people exited a blue-and-white STCUM bus and cut around us.
He pointed to the store
displaying various baguettes and round loaves of bread. The gold
leaf sign read " Au Pain
Doré ." When he pushed open the door, a
bell jingled, and a woman squeezed by us with a baguette held
protectively against her chest.
The store smelled like
flour and jam. It was so crowded that people grabbed tickets from a
red dispenser. A girl in a forest green apron called,
" Quarante-huit! Quarante-huit, s'il te
plait !" while one of her comrades grabbed
bread out of the window and another used silver tongs to pluck a
fruit tart out of the display case. I slowed to admire the pains au chocolat , the
éclairs, the crèmes
brulées , the little round cheesecakes, the
tiny chocolate cakes, the palm-sized blueberry tarts...
Alex laughed. "Want one?"
I sighed. "All of them. This is
wonderful."
He shrugged. "This is Montreal."
I looked around at all the people, lined up
for their daily bread and the occasional sweet. He was right. To
them, it was perfectly normal to visit a bakery, a fruit market,
and a fishmonger instead of a supermarket, even though they had to
line up at each store. Food was worth the time and effort. Of
course, there was a Metro supermarket right on the corner of
Côte-des-Neiges and Queen Mary, but the average person still
apparently respected and enjoyed small-scale cuisine. My
ex-boyfriend, Ryan, had a roommate from Montreal who hypothesized
that the reason French people were thin wasn't so much because of
the wine they drank, the olive oil they used. It was because they
ate good quality food instead of stuffing themselves on junk. There
were no studies to back up his claim, but looking around this
bakery, I half-believed it.
I had my first inkling I could make a home
here. The city had seemed malignant and alien at first encounter,
but maybe Montreal could teach me something, too.
Alex squeezed my hand. I inhaled the yeasty
air and felt carefree, like I was falling into the jounce and easy
rhythm of summer in the city.
Instead of taking a
ticket, Alex led me along the length of the store. In the back,
they had a little boucherie . No sweets, but
refrigerated cases of lunch meat, cheese, and olives. A piece of
paper stuck to the brick wall advertised the midi-express : your choice of a
sandwich, a drink, and the dessert of the day, all for about $6.
Alex made a little bow. "Your lunch, Madame ."
I made a face. I'm still a
mademoiselle. I chose the rosbif . A guy in a white apron and
matching cap swiftly prepared both our paninis.
"And now we have a picnic," said Alex. He
insisted on carrying my paper bag lunch as well as his own, and he
made a point of opening the door for me.
Alex guided me up a little side
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