—Sir? Excuse me, there’s been a misunderstanding with my colleague. I can see you now. Camille, could you please help him over here?
The doctor cuts me off from behind, blocking my way out. I’d almost managed to escape. The old secretary carefully led me to the exam table, then she leaves, closing the door gently behind her. I sit, sheepish.
The doctor turns his back to me. He quietly washes his hands at the sink. For a long time. I wait. Then he carefully dries them. For a long time. I wait.
This is what I dreaded most: a cold doctor. When he speaks, all I’ll hear will be: “you’re just a piece of meat, nothing you say really matters. You’ll either heal or die, and a smile won’t change a thing.”
—So, you had a fall? Tell me. What happened, and where does it hurt?
—I was walking down the street, looking at the posters, and… my heart suddenly did something weird. Then, when I stepped aside to avoid someone… I twisted my ankle on the edge of the curb…
Tears well up in my eyes. I feel like a whiny kid recounting his latest tumble.
—Were you scared?
—Yeah. I fell into the road… a car almost ran me over.
—It’s all right. You’re safe now.
I cling to the edge of the padded table without meeting his gaze. He grabs something from his drawer and comes back over to me.
—I’m going to listen, but… I might not be able to do anything about your heart. I’m not a specialist. Just breathe normally.
He slips a hand beneath my shirt, and the stethoscope touches my skin without warning. Ice cold. My breathing turns ragged. My chest feels really tight.
—Do you have white coat syndrome?
—Yeah… can you hear a—
—Shh.
He listens. I try not to breathe too loudly. Trying not to shake. I can feel my heart pounding, too high. Too fast.
—Do you hear something?
—I hear that you’re still in shock… and not very comfortable here. But your heart it “sing in tune.” I like that. Lie back. I’ll check your ankle now.
I do as I’m told and lie down with my hands resting on my stomach. The doctor moves to the foot of the exam table and unties my shoelaces. Then he slips off my shoe, followed by my sock. Every movement is slow. Precise. I fix my gaze on his desk. It’s made of light wood and dark metal. On top of it are some round wooden thing, a few resistance bands and his prescription pad.
— Ah!
He’s just taken hold of my bare foot. His palms wrap around my ankle and stay there for a moment. Just resting there. Like they’re supporting it. Then he starts examining it. Every movement feels like a scanner. As if he’s reading something that’s completely blurry to me, even inside my own body.
I don’t dare look at his hands, but they’re cold. Really cold. It feels good, but it also catches me off guard, because the way he touches me is warm. Present. I don’t think he’s a cold person. Maybe he ran his hands under cold water for a long time so they could soothe me.
—So, what do you do for a living, Mr. Fulido?
—I do interface design, for apps or software.
—Do you need to move around often?
—No, apart from important meetings. Otherwise I can work from home.
—You’ll have to limit your movements for the first three days.
He sets my foot back down and rummages through his drawers. Not finding what he wants, he clicks his tongue, then leaves his office. I can hear him talking with his colleagues a little farther away. Maybe he saw something serious and wants a second opinion. I push myself up on my elbows. I’m too tense, I want to run away.
I don’t want to be a patient. A case. A line in a file he’ll archive. And I don’t want to leave with bad news. Even if it hurts, I want someone to tell me it’s fine. Limping alone is easier than swallowing a painful word.
He comes back. I’m afraid of what he’ll say. I lie back down, then go back to studying his office to keep my stress under control. There are all kinds of diplomas hanging on the wall, but I can’t read them. There’s also a small photo of what looks like a team posing in a gym. But it’s so tiny, I can barely make anything out from here.
Suddenly, my foot is covered in cream. But that’s not the most surprising part. It’s more the way the doctor spreads it over my skin. The pressure of his fingers. At his touch, my foot can’t quite decide whether to tense up or relax.
—It’s just a mild sprain, it’ll heal quickly !
I force a fake smile without really looking at him.
—Oh. That’s good news, then.
Great. If all I came for was a bit of cream rubbed in… I could’ve spared myself the trip. And the contact. Waste of time for both of us. I’m not an interesting case. I shouldn’t even have come.
…
I knew I could manage on my own.
📖 Next chapter: Omaè’s point of view! 🔥
🌶️ Soon: spicy and erotic chapters! 🔞
