Five hundred years? He'd been dead five hundred years!
She sensed his distress and hugged him. "But there will be lots of time to worry about things like that later," she said. "Besides, you will want to meet your present before you worry about your past."
Did he? Yes, he supposed he did. Yet, he felt vaguely rebellious. He wanted to know more about who'd killed him and why.
"Oh, that little pout!" She laughed and touched his lips with her index finger. "Adorable! You'll drive us quite mad I'm afraid. Women will be lining up for you."
He very much doubted that. If history was anything to go by, women would avoid him. He was one of those men who women simply do not see. At least, not as men.
Oh, he'd been liked. He was the man in the office that everyone knew was "A Really Nice Guy." He was the fellow in the cubicle down the hall that everyone knew you "could count on." He was the chap you could safely share your troubles with. He was the sweet boy who was always supportive and never judged.
But, nice as he was, there was something about him that turned people off. Or didn't turn them on. Partly it was because he was small, and pudgy, and a little soft around the edges. And perhaps he had been a bit too agreeable. Or, as he heard it expressed by two female co-workers who didn’t know he was listening, "He's sweet. But like a Yorkiepoo." And, unless you were one sick puppy yourself, you didn't go to bed with Yorkiepoos.
But he didn't tell Doctor Elena any of this. He simply shook his head and sighed.