New Assignment

So, I have to write a three to five page story that's all dialogue.

I'm thinking it'll be a chat log.

“The Sacrifice”

His feet thudded along the track, propelling his prodigious bulk forward. Sweat soaked every square millimeter of his skin, which was wicked into the cold evening air by the cheap cotton sweats Bill wore. At seven o'clock, it was well past sunset, but the track was illuminated by the arctic glare of the football lights, which created a false daylight betrayed by the multitude of odd, overlapping shadows. His head was down, his eyes were filled by the salt streams from his forehead and drenched scalp, but one foot landed in front of the other in a faltering approximation of rhythm. Other runners, clad in sleek spandex, passed him by. Their eyes flitted to Bill, and quickly looked away. Some smiled, others seemed stoney faced, but none stopped to speak to him as he plodded his four laps around the track. His joints clicked, groaned and creaked, but did their duty.

The fourth lap took Bill back to the bleachers where his gym bag awaited. He paced a bit more to cool down, tried stretching his muscles and took a few swigs of water. Unbidden, the gorge rose in his throat, and he was running again, this time, behind the bleachers. Harsh, organic sounds mingled with a quick splashing noise, and then all was quiet. Bill emerged from the darkness, pale and shaken, remarking quietly: “fuck me.”

* * *

“The terms we use are 'prediabetic' and 'hypertensive,' sir,” the doctor intoned as she read from the screen. “Your blood-work and EKG are encouraging, but you need...”

“Diet and exercise?” interrupted Bill, his chin down, his eyes at his feet.

The doctor tore her eyes from the screen, and regarded her patient. She spoke again, softer and warmer. “Yes. I'm glad you came in when you did. You have a chance to turn this around.” She stood, her white coat pressed, but her hair tousled, and hurriedly pulled back. She looked him in the eye and said “You can do this,” as she patted his shoulder. More words were exchanged, about programs and prescriptions, and pamphlets were given, but when Bill got to his car, it was at his shoulder he looked.

* * *

The ladies at the office couldn't stop talking. Ever. About anything. They never spoke to Bill; they spoke at him and perhaps even through him. Bill was a department of one in an office of fifty, his own little closet crammed with the tools of his trade: humming servers and spare parts galore. They did not often converse face to face with Bill, so it was four months until the chatter turned to him on occasion. They noted his trips to Little Saigon had stopped, and Marcy said “I think he's bringing in salads, and he skipped this month's birthday cake. When do guys in IT eat healthy?” The others quietly laughed. A month later, Wendy noted the new clothes Bill purchased. “It's not just the old polos and khakis. I think he's slimmed down.” It was Yvonne that had the killer two weeks later. “I saw Bill at the track last night. I was dropping the kids off at practice, and I swear he was there there running. He even had the whole runner's get up, you know, head to toe Underarmor crap.” This news set the hen-house in a tizzy, and a vital investigation was launched while Bill walked for lunch. The ladies stole into his office, and there was no sign of sweets or salts there at all. It was all just gym stuff and carrot sticks.

* * *

“Six months in, and you've shown quite an improvement! Down 35 pounds, it looks like, and your blood pressure looks great. Well done!” remarked Sarah Carmichael, MD. He had not remembered her name, of all those small details, but there it was, sewn onto her pocket. “Not many of our patients have such an improvement. You've done a remarkable job.”

“Thank you, Dr. Carmichael,” Bill blurted. He flushed a bit. She still held the calipers they used to test his body fat percentage as he put on his shirt. He did not rush to do so, like he was six months ago. “It's been tough, but I had a goal.”

“Goals really help. It's good to keep motivated,” she said to her clipboard as the pen glided over it, checking off boxes with a will of it's own.

“Well, see... The goal sort of involved you.” She looked up, confused. Bill muscled on. “I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee after work? If you don't find that awkward? Doctor, patient and all.”

“Oh, Mr. Zywiec, oh...” The flush spread to her face, and she covered her mouth with her hand, in that little girl gesture. “Oh, no. I'm sorry. My fiance might object.”

“Oh, god. I'm sorry. I didn't see a ring.” Bill was redder than Mars, redder than Betelgeuse. “Otherwise...”
Dr. Carmichael looked stricken. “Yeah, I... I don't often wear it. You know, inspecting patients and all... Speaking of which, I have my next appointment. But, keep up the good work!” She then fled the room.

* * *

He sat in his car, shaking and trembling. His face was a jumble, running from furrowed to downcast and back again. It then set in a mask of resolve. To himself, Bill said “Fuck it,” and pulled away from the clinic. He drove like a shot to the drive thru lane.