About Kismet

2

"I'm done for today," her client announced, holding onto the sidebars of the specialized treadmill.

Kismet playfully frowned at him.

"You're not done until I decide you are," she said, pausing for a moment, "Okay. Now You're done."

He looked at her in disbelief as she hid a smile in reply, tossing a small towel to him as she grabbed his crutches.

She walked over to him, finally letting her lips lift upwards, extending her arm out to him for support.

She had his crutches ready in the crook of her other arm, making certain he was steady before positioning the crutches under his armpits.

He gave her a grateful look, silently thanking her. He stood with his crutches, leaning on one slightly as he waited for her feedback.

Jake was recommended to a physiotherapist following several surgeries to repair his left leg; an injury that resulted from a car accident. He was assigned to Kismet upon recommendation to their clinic because she specialized in the men's lower extremities.

Kismet glanced at her tablet briefly, before regarding Jake. "I've noted significant improvement and believe you'll need, at most, 3 sessions subsequent to today's. You're scheduled for a follow up with your doctor, and we'll proceed upon her recommendation."

Jake shifted slightly, sighing in frustration. "Why can't you decide for me? You said I've improved," he stated.

Kismet shook her head, "When a spinal cord is injured severely, a loss of movement in the lower extremities of your body, your leg, in this case, can warrant several months of physical therapy. You've only had to complete three weeks and have already fast-tracked your recovery."

She paused, pitying the 17-year-old. "Be patient. Only two weeks to go," she reminded him.

Jake nodded, "Thanks. I'll see you then."

"Oliver, not me," she corrected him and he nodded in understanding.

She watched Jake leave the room, glancing at her watch to check the time.

—

It was ten to eight when Kismet left the building, making her way across the lot to her car. She had pulled her cap over her head as she took note of the streetlights illuminating the falling flurries.

She kicked her boots against the side of her car as she got in, careful to not spread snow on the mats at her feet. Tossing her bag onto the passenger seat, she blew into her hands to warm them up, starting the car a moment later.

The drive home was uneventful but peaceful therein. She had her playlist on shuffle, the music playing lowly as she made the 15-minute drive back to her place.

By the time she reached her apartment building, however, it was nearly half-past eight, complementary of the Harvey's bag she held and the Toronto night traffic.

She pushed the key into her door, twisting, and nudging it open with her foot. She was greeted by the soft meow of her cat, Professor, or Po for short. Professor was two years old, but was diagnosed with dwarfism and would remain the size of a mature kitten despite his age.

She dropped her bag on the bench near her doorway, placing the Harvey's next to it as she took off her boots, her coat following. Hanging it on the tall coat hanger, she grabbed her food, walking towards the large couch.

Making herself comfortable, she bent down to pick up Professor who was weaving between her legs.

"Hi, Po," she cooed, watching in amusement as he let out a series of meows, as if in conversation.