The Pharmacy Prescription
"Dr. Elaine has been filling Marcus's prescriptions for years. When she finally asks about the man behind the medications, she gets more than she bargained for."
Walgreens on Westheimer sees everyone.
I'm Dr. Elaine Patterson, head pharmacist, fifty-eight years old, dispenser of pills and unsolicited advice.
I know my regulars by their medications. Mr. Chen's blood pressure. Mrs. Williams's diabetes. Mr. Johnson's—
Well, Mr. Johnson's situation is complicated.
Marcus Johnson has been coming to my counter for three years.
Heart medication. Cholesterol. And other prescriptions that tell a story he's never shared.
"How are you feeling today, Mr. Johnson?"
"Same as always, Doc." He slides his insurance card across. "You know how it is."
I do know. I just wish I could do more than fill his bottles.
One day, he asks for a consultation.
"Is there somewhere private we can talk?"
We use the consultation room—tiny, clinical, but private.
"What's on your mind, Mr. Johnson?"
"I'm sixty-two years old." He sits heavily. "I've been on these pills for four years. And I need to ask—is this all there is?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, am I just waiting to die?" His voice cracks. "Taking pills every day, alone in my house, just... waiting?"
I've been a pharmacist for thirty years.
I've learned to keep professional distance. To dispense medication and advice without getting involved.
But looking at this man—broken, lonely, asking questions I ask myself—
"No," I say. "This isn't all there is."
"How do you know?"
"Because I won't let it be."
It starts with coffee.
Just two people talking after my shift. He tells me about his wife passing five years ago, his kids scattered across the country, the house that feels like a tomb.
"Why don't you leave?" I ask.
"Where would I go?"
"Anywhere. Somewhere new."
"Is that what you'd do?"
I think about my own life—thirty years of the same counter, the same questions, the same everything.
"I might," I admit. "If someone came with me."
The coffee dates become regular.
Then dinners. Then movies at his place because he doesn't like crowds anymore.
"My kids think I'm crazy," he says one night.
"For what?"
"For spending time with my pharmacist." He smiles. "They don't understand."
"Understand what?"
"That you're the first person in five years who sees me as more than a collection of prescriptions."
"Marcus..."
"I know." He takes my hand. "I'm your patient. You're my pharmacist. It's complicated."
"It's not that complicated."
"Then what is it?"
"It's..." I search for the word. "It's possible. If we want it to be."
"Do you want it?"
"I want you." The admission surprises us both. "God help me, I want you."
He kisses me in his living room.
The same room where his wife probably sat. The same furniture that's held his loneliness. But when his mouth finds mine, history rewrites itself.
"Bedroom?" he whispers.
"If you're sure."
"I haven't been sure of anything in five years." He takes my hand. "Except this."
His bedroom is neat, impersonal, waiting.
We change that together.
He undresses me slowly, hands shaking slightly—medication side effect or nerves, I can't tell.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"You're biased."
"I'm honest." He kisses my shoulder. "Let me show you."
He makes love to me carefully.
Mindful of his heart, mindful of his limits, but present in ways that matter more.
"Tell me if—" he starts.
"Don't worry." I pull him closer. "I'm a medical professional. I've got this."
He laughs, and the laughter becomes something else.
We move together slowly.
No rush, no pressure. Just two people rediscovering what it means to be touched.
"Good?" he asks.
"Better than good." I wrap my legs around him. "Don't stop."
"Never planned to."
Afterward, he holds me like I might disappear.
"My doctor would probably disapprove of this."
"Your pharmacist approves." I kiss his chest. "Consider it a new prescription."
"What's the dosage?"
"Daily. Or as needed."
His medications change over the next year.
Lower doses, better numbers. Exercise, diet, having something to live for—it all adds up.
"You're getting healthier," I note.
"I have a reason now."
"What reason?"
"You." He pulls me into his arms. "Best medicine I've ever had."
I retire from the pharmacy six months later.
Not because I have to—because I want to. Thirty years is long enough to stand behind a counter.
Marcus sells his house. We buy something new together. Fresh start, no ghosts.
"You changed my life," he says on moving day.
"You changed mine too."
Some prescriptions can't be filled at a pharmacy.
Love. Hope. Purpose.
Those take different medicine.
But when the right patient meets the right pharmacist—
Miracles happen.
One dose at a time.
For the rest of our lives.