I went to my doctor today, a pilgrimage I make every six months. I don’t mind going because, well, there is a nurse there that thinks I am a stud muffin. Really.
Whenever I arrive she calls my name, smiles, and leads me to a private room, gently closing the door behind us. I sit down in a chair and she slips behind her computer, idly pressing keys while shooting me furtive looks. I know she is pretending to act professionally because she always asks me the same questions, and they are a little suggestive. Like, do you drink alcohol and if so how much. Rather a clever way of finding out how much it would take to get me drunk, don’t you think.
Before long she can no longer resist the temptation to move close to me. I feel the warmth of her body next to mine and the pressure of her hand upon my arm. I sit motionless, afraid to move and break the spell. Then, without any warning, she leans toward me and in a soft voice says “one fifty seven over seventy eight”. I have no idea what that means, but I suspect it has something to do with her heart rate. Poor kid.
I have to do something to let her down easily. So I say “Did you know I am married”? She hesitates a minute, staring openly at me, then replies “Yes, I know. Is that important”? For a moment, I struggle with what to say. Finally I blurt “Yes, it is. Why do you ask”? “Because” she says, “you tell me that every time you are here”. Well I think, at least she is listening, but apparently it does not make any difference to her. It appears she cannot help herself.
She knows soon the doctor will arrive and our time together will be over. There is an awkward silence in the room. She fusses with some items on the table, probably a little flustered by the intimacy of the situation, trying to hold her feelings inside. Finally, she turns and again looks at me, seemingly at a loss for words. Slowly she approaches, her eyes never leaving my face. I start to get nervous. Something significant is about to happen, and I don’t know what to do. At last she speaks and I am made aware of the extent of her sexual fantasy. She says “do you think you could give me a urine sample Robert”, lightly caressing my hand as she presses a small bottle into it.
So there it is. It is finally out in the open. I know now that I cannot convince her that the future holds nothing for us. I will give her what she wants, only to keep from breaking her heart. Then I will leave, hoping not to see her again in the lobby. It would be too painful. Perhaps, my absence will help to quell some of the feelings for me that she harbors. Only time will tell. I guess I will know in another six months.