Dr. Albuquerque

The little hemp-pants wearing man set me immediately at ease. His matching sage green shirt, socks, and eyes (the texture of dried glue) did too. In a matter of mismatched moments he danced in and out of a rolling chair, examined my sore throat, twiddled the sides of his mouth, and announced that he was ready for retirement. He wrote out a prescription in scrawly doctor print, and handed it to me. His eyes gleamed beams at me as he firmly negated my attempts at self diagnosis. This wiley old man, a slight-egoist wearing tan crocs, is my kind of doctor.