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He looks at the paper-covered table, then back at me. “Temporarily.”
“Convenient distinction.”
“Yes.”
For a second, it feels almost normal.
Not safe. Not simple. But almost like our texts before everything got complicated. Me pushing. Him answering. The conversation catching anyway.
He moves to the sink and washes his hands. “Dr. Acharya’s repeat labs were appropriate. Today is mostly confirmation and baseline prenatal review. Too early for much on ultrasound.”
“I know.”
He dries his hands. “I know you know.”
That makes me look at him.
He says it without sarcasm. Just fact.
“You don’t have to explain every basic thing to me,” I say.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“But I am going to explain the parts involving your care, because you’re the patient.”
I hate how reasonable that is.
I climb onto the exam table and sit with my feet on the step. “I’m bad at being a patient.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m great with patients. Just not as one.”
“Common disease among medical students.”
“We should publish.”
“Terrible sample size.”
“I know at least six people.”
“Still terrible.”
I point at him. “See? This is why nobody likes research.”
His almost-smile returns. I hold on to it for half a second longer than I should. Then he puts on gloves, and the mood shifts back into something more formal.
He listens to my heart, my lungs. His touch is professional. Careful. Nothing like the hotel. Nothing like the car. That should make it easier.
It doesn’t.
His stethoscope is cold through the thin fabric of my top.
“Breathe in.”
I do.
