“This is for the doctor Lincoln, not for me. You can feel free to fill it out yourself if you feel uncomfortable.”
“Yeah maybe I should,” I say, taking the tablet from her.
Gabby looks annoyed. I legitimately try to fill the tablet out, trying to focus on the letters, but everything is blurred. When I’m nervous like this, I can’t see. Everything is in doubles.
“Having a hard time?” Gabby asks, seemingly with some fascination.
I want to answer, but the nausea comes back and I close my eyes, slowly opening them.
The needle.
It’s not the needle, is it? It’s just being here. Why do I feel like this… like I want to get up, crash through the window, and escape?
My leg is bouncing, and when I feel a hand on my right thigh, the one that’s not bouncing, I look over.
“Do you want me to fill it out for you?” Gabby asks, a little more gentle.
“I told you I’ll do it.”
“Okay but… you’ve been sitting here for about 7 minutes not doinganything.”
“It hasn’t been 7 minutes Gabby. Jesus just give me a second.”
“It’sliterallybeen 7 minutes.”
That’s weird because, for me, it feels like 10 seconds. What the hell?
Am I losing time?
I feel the tablet sliding out of my hand. I try to resist, holding it.
“I know that you’re intimate with Sarah or whoever else.”
“Just Sarah.”
“Okay so that’s one partner then?” she asks, trying to be normal.
My tongue nervously traces across my bottom lip. I nod slowly, eyes closed before opening them again and fixing on the front desk about four yards away.
“Is that in the last 12 months?” she asks without looking away from the tablet.
“Uh huh.”
“Do you engage in high risk behavior?” she asks as she clicks the small area for the last question.
“I mean… I don’t know what that means. That can mean anything. Jumping in front of trains. Drinking several cups of coffee in one sitting. Trying to lift the robot over my head. Pulling all-nighters several times in a row just to get a project done. Coming home dead tired on a shuttle at night and sleeping when there are potentially dangerous people around me. You see what I mean?”
“So is that a yes?”
“Is there an option for neutral?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Then what the hell kind of question is that? It’s pretty vague.”
“I don’t know Lincoln. Before I used to check no. High risk to me means that you could die from it.”
“Then I guess no. But they should specify that,” I say before drumming my fingers on the arms of the chair.
