***

“Morning Detours” unfolds as a deceptively simple narrative about an early-morning errand — a fasting blood test before a doctor’s appointment — yet beneath its plainspoken rhythm lies a quietly profound meditation on ritual, mortality, and the strange poetry of routine. The story’s opening image — the October air described as having a “faint metallic chill that makes you wish coffee counted as water” — immediately sets the tone: sensory, dryly humorous, and tinged with existential weariness.

 ***

“Morning Detours” 

by Harry Arabian

The October air carried that faint metallic chill — the kind that makes you wish coffee counted as water. My stomach was empty — not by choice, but by doctor’s orders. My annual physical with Dr. Watson was set for 9:30 a.m., but the fasting blood test came first. I left home early, trading my usual hot coffee and cinnamon-apple oats for a brisk drive and the faint hope that the clinic’s waiting room might at least smell of caffeine.

When I arrived at 7:30, the place was deserted — only the hum of WBZ morning news breaking the silence. I signed my name on the clipboard resting neatly on the technician’s desk and took a seat. The TV droned on about weather and traffic — until “Waltham” caught my ear.

“Main Street closed,” the anchor said, “detour on Second Avenue, bridge collapse near Route 30, intersection of 128 and the Pike.”
A lot to digest on an empty stomach.

“Mr. Arabian?” a young voice called.
There she was — Nguyen, the technician, in her crisp white coat, ready for another round of our yearly exchange. Her small workspace now featured a photo of Joshua Tree National Park.

“Glad to see you took my advice,” I said, pointing at it. “That cubicle needed scenery.”
“Yeah,” she said with a smile, “I picked that photo after visiting the park myself.”

One jab, three red vials, and a cotton swab later, I was free — lighter by a few milliliters and one small obligation.

Instead of coffee, I opted for a cup of hibiscus tea at the café next door — caffeine-free insurance against high blood pressure. Even the morning newscasts seemed to conspire — every channel warning of closures, delays, or storms ahead. I lingered by the window, watching leaves tumble across the pavement like tiny travelers unsure of their route.

At 8:45, I headed for Dr. Watson’s clinic — only to find it rebranded overnight as “Convenient MD.”
“Convenient for whom?” I muttered, stepping inside.

Sheryl, the front desk nurse, greeted me with her usual calm efficiency. “Dr. Watson will see you in a minute,” she said. The waiting room TV blared another weather report — downpours and high winds complicating the morning commute. No surprise there.

Dr. Watson greeted me warmly. “Your blood test just came in. Looks good — keep up that lifestyle.”
He took my blood pressure, listened to my chest, and grinned. “By the way, that self-propelled electric mower you told me about — game changer. My hearing’s better already.”
“Glad it helped,” I said. “Your advice on cutting sugar and salt saved me from needing a prescription.”

By the time I hit Main Street again, traffic was pure gridlock. I turned onto Prospect, hoping to outsmart the jam, but the orange ROAD WORK signs had other ideas.
“Shortcut failed,” I said with a sigh.

Then I saw a familiar face — Jack, my old tenant, looking slightly weathered but alive. I pulled over.
“Jack! Long time no see.”
“I know what brought you here,” he said with a half-grin. “Traffic jam or my ex-wife?”
“Just the traffic,” I said, laughing.
“She probably thinks I’m hiding from her — behind on alimony.”
“Any shortcuts to Lexington?”
“Blocked too. But I’ve got coffee brewing, if you’ve got time.”

And there it was — the best offer of the day. One missed breakfast, a few detours, and a reunion I didn’t know I needed. As I followed him up the walk, I realized I’d started the morning fasting for blood work and ended up fed in a different way entirely.

Sometimes the long way around is the only route to what you didn’t know you’d been missing.