A Story

"How is the pressure?"
"No change."
Pascal completed the suture, released the clamps. Blood flowed through the artery.
"Pressure?"
"Same."
"Good. Close this up. I need a drink."
"Yes, doctor."
Pascal stripped off the latex gloves and threw them into a trash bin. He stepped out of the room and into his study.
Books lined shelves built into one wall. A large table stood at an angle in the room. Papers and journals lay scatted on the table. One page had a diagram drawn on it. It was an open arm drawn in red pencil with accurate detail where sinew, veins, tendons, muscle and arteries lay within the arm.
Off to one side, a small table nestled against a daybed. A large basin filled with water sat on top the table, a soiled towel hung from a rung on the side. Beneath the top, a decanter stood on a shelf with a glass filled half way.
Pascal stopped before the drawing on the table. He stabbed it with his finger. "Today I have conquered you." A slight smile spread across his face. Dark lines made his face look aged like the atmosphere in the room. The operation was a success. It was his sixteenth try at replacing the artery. Fifteen other attempts had failed and the patient had died. But not today. "I've got you now."
The door burst open behind him.
"Doctor," said Albert, Pascal's assistant. Blood streaked across his apron as if someone had squirted him with a watergun filled with blood.
Pascal wheeled around, saw the blood, the disappointment in Albert's face. His shoulders slumped briefly, and he charged back into the surgery, pushing aside Albert.
"Not today!"
Albert hung his head, and closed the door.