The Misanthrope
Copyright© 2025 by Drabbles
Chapter 2: The Mechanics of Connection
Henry sat at his desk that morning, staring at his phone like it was a surgical instrument he’d forgotten how to use. The number was still in his contacts—he’d never deleted it, though he couldn’t say why. Paul Martinson. He hadn’t spoken to the man in five years, not since the night he’d saved Paul’s son from bleeding out after a motorcycle accident.
The boy—Marcus, his name was Marcus—had come into the ER with a severed femoral artery and maybe ten minutes to live. Henry had been the attending, and he’d done what he always did: moved with absolute precision, no wasted motion, no hesitation. Clamp, suture, transfusion. The kid had walked out of the hospital three weeks later.
Paul had cried in the hallway, gripping Henry’s hand with both of his, saying over and over, “I owe you everything. Anything you ever need. Anything.”
Henry had nodded, uncomfortable with gratitude even then, and filed the moment away in the category of things he did because they were his job, not because they required acknowledgment.
But now, staring at Tanya’s empty desk through his office window—she’d made it to the deposition on time, was probably setting up the conference room right now—he found himself pressing the call button.
Paul answered on the second ring. “Martinson Auto.”
“Paul. It’s Henry Gordon.”
There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath. “Dr. Gordon. Jesus. It’s been—how long has it been?”
“Five years.”
“Five years.” Paul’s voice softened. “How are you? I heard about ... I’m so sorry. About your wife.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. This was why he didn’t call people. “I need a favor.”
“Anything. You know that.”
“There’s a car. A teal Honda Civic, should be getting towed from Lake Shore Drive. The owner is a colleague. I’d like you to look at it, do whatever repairs are necessary.”
“Of course. What’s the owner’s name?”
“Tanya Harris.”
“I’ll take care of it personally. Should I call her with the estimate?”
Henry hesitated. This was where he should say yes, should extract himself from this situation, should let Tanya handle her own car repairs like the adult she was. Instead he said, “Call me.”
Paul called back three hours later. Henry was in the middle of reviewing a deposition transcript—a botched appendectomy, clear-cut malpractice—when his phone buzzed.
“It’s not good,” Paul said without preamble. “Timing belt’s shot, which means the engine’s compromised. Needs a new transmission. Brake pads are basically nonexistent. Honestly, Dr. Gordon, this car should’ve been off the road a year ago. I’m surprised it made it this long.”
“How much?”
“Parts and labor? We’re looking at around four thousand. Maybe forty-five hundred. And it’ll take me about two weeks—I’ve got to order some of the parts.”
Four thousand dollars. Henry thought about Tanya’s enormous purse, her cheerful admission that she couldn’t afford repairs, her student loans and her search for a new apartment. Four thousand dollars was probably more than she had.
“Do the work,” he said.
“You want me to call Ms. Harris about payment, or—”
“I’ll handle it. Send me the bill.”
Another pause. “Dr. Gordon, that’s ... that’s generous.”
“You said you owed me.”
“I do. I absolutely do. But this is—”
“Two weeks, you said?”
“Give or take.”
“Fine. Thank you, Paul.”
He hung up before Paul could say anything else, before he could ask questions Henry didn’t want to answer, like why he was paying four thousand dollars for a stranger’s car repairs, or what he was doing with his life, or whether he was okay.
He wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay in five years. But he was functional, which was close enough.
The next morning, Henry arrived at Tanya’s apartment building at 6:45 AM. He’d gotten her address from the HR directory, which felt vaguely stalkerish, but she’d seemed to expect the ride when he’d sent her a brief email the night before: Your car is at Martinson Auto. Repairs will take approximately two weeks. I can provide transportation.
She was waiting outside in her yellow coat, holding two paper coffee cups, when he pulled up.
“You’re a saint,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Seriously. I was going to take the bus, which would’ve meant leaving at like five-thirty, and I am not a five-thirty person. I’m barely a six-thirty person.” She handed him one of the cups. “Vanilla latte. I didn’t know what you liked, so I guessed. If you hate it, I can drink both. I have the caffeine tolerance of a hummingbird.”
Henry stared at the cup. When was the last time someone had brought him coffee? “Thank you.”
“Thank you. For, you know, everything. The ride yesterday, getting my car towed, and now this. I called the mechanic—Paul?—and he said you set it all up. That’s really nice of you.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, it’s amazing. Most people would’ve just driven past me yesterday. But you stopped. And now you’re driving me to work. For two weeks! That’s like, above and beyond colleague behavior. That’s like, friend behavior.”
Friend. The word hung in the air between them. Henry pulled away from the curb, focusing on the road, on the familiar route, on anything except the strange tightness in his chest.
“Anyway,” Tanya continued, apparently unbothered by his silence, “I’m going to pay you back. I don’t know how yet, but I will. Maybe I’ll make you dinner? I’m a really good cook. My mom taught me. She’s from Louisiana, so I make a mean gumbo. Do you like gumbo?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you like gumbo? How is that possible? Have you never had it?”
“I don’t eat out much.”
“What do you eat?”
“Meal prep. I make a week’s worth of food on Sundays.”
Tanya was quiet for a moment, and Henry wondered if he’d said something wrong. Then she said, “That’s really organized. I can barely plan dinner the same day. Last night I had cereal because I forgot to go grocery shopping.”
“Cereal is efficient.”
“Efficient.” She laughed. “That’s one word for it. Sad is another word. But yeah, let’s go with efficient.”
The drive took twenty-three minutes, same as always, but it felt different with Tanya in the car. The silence wasn’t complete anymore. It was punctuated by her observations about the city waking up, about the people they passed, about the radio station Henry didn’t have on because he never listened to music in the car.
“You don’t like music?” she asked on the third morning, after he’d picked her up and she’d handed him another coffee—black this time, which was actually what he preferred, though he hadn’t told her that.
“I like music.”
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