Valentine's Day
That morning, Cloe felt sad. It was Valentine’s Day, and she thought that, as every year for a long time now, no man would bring her roses; at most they might offer her a small cactus, to remind her of the thorns still lodged in her heart. To lift her spirits she had an idea. She went to the wardrobe, rummaged and rummaged among her old dresses until she found that red one — so sexy — that she had bought on the very day her husband asked for a divorce.
Ten years had passed, enough time for Cloe to trade her unhappiness for a few extra pounds. When she ate, she escaped her misery; endorphins gave her the pleasure she hadn’t found in another man. She put on the red dress, slipped on a good pair of heels, sucked in her stomach to hide her belly, and headed off to work with the hope that this day would be special.
She walked through the hospital door and noticed people looking at her differently from any other day — perhaps with more respect, and one or two envious women looked her up and down searching for something to criticize.
When she reached the changing room, she opened her locker, took out her green surgical scrubs, laid them on the wooden bench, grabbed the hem of the red dress and began to pull it up over her head, slowly; but when it reached her neck it was impossible to get it off. She started pulling with all her strength, and with every tug she felt more exhausted, she felt the air beginning to run out.
At that moment she heard a voice from very close by, saying:
—Now you can feel what it’s like to be in my skin — that same suffocating sensation that has been my companion for ten years, locked in your wardrobe like a prisoner serving a sentence. The only crime I committed was to seduce you into buying me, and you did it with such excitement because you loved the color red. You promised to take me out dancing every Saturday and you never kept your word. And today you’re using me like a handkerchief to beg for a sad little rose.
Cloe felt ashamed of herself and came to understand that her red dress was not to blame for her problems, and that you don’t need a perfect body to wear a fitted dress and take it out dancing every now and then.
It was then that she heard over the intercom:
—Dr. Cloe, please report to operating theater seven.
She couldn’t believe it; they were waiting for her to perform an open-heart surgery that would save a life, while her own hung by a thread, in the hands of that wretched killer dress.
Cloe, remorseful and with an agonized voice, pleaded:
—Please, let me go. I’ll prove I’ve changed.
The red dress reconsidered and replied:
—All right, I’m going to let you go. But you’ll have to wear me into the operating theater. You know how much I love the color red — but I’ve never seen a red as natural as human blood.
Cloe gathered her green surgical scrubs, put them back in the locker, and ran to operating theater seven.
When she arrived, the whole team was waiting for her, and upon seeing her, mouths agape, they exclaimed in unison:
—Wow!
Her patient, lying on the gurney, stretched out the arm with the drip and, with a smile on his lips, handed her a red rose, saying:
—Happy Valentine’s Day, Dr. Cloe — you look absolutely beautiful!
Carlos E.