“Yes,” she says. “And to see what happens to your body when intimacy isn’t being graded.”
That lands.
“And if it doesn’t work?” I ask.
“Then we learn something,” she says. “Which is still progress.”
I stare at the ceiling.
No sex. Just connection.
It sounds simple.
Which probably means it isn’t.
“And you think this might help?” I ask.
“I think,” she says, “it will tell us a great deal.”
I nod slowly.
I came here hoping for a fix.
Instead, I’ve been given an experiment.
And, somehow, that feels exactly right.
9
The Chihuahua, the Micro Dick and the Explosions
Christa
By nine thirty, Ihave already made three cups of tea I do not want, answered four emails that were forwarded to me with no context and a vaguecan you deal with this?, and smiled at Caroline twice.
That last one should count as a medical event.
Reception at Dubois & Woods is designed to look welcoming. Pale wood. Frosted glass. A plant that may or may not be real. It’s the first thing clients see and the last place anyone important ever sits.
Which is how I end up here.
I straighten a stack of leaflets no one has ever chosen willingly and shift in my chair, trying to find a position that feels professional rather than vaguely nauseous. Tea is not helping. Tea never helps. What Iwantis coffee. What Ihaveis a growing human who has opinions about caffeine and is currently winning.
Through the glass partition, I can see them all. The planners, the assistants, the trainees. Laptops open. Reusable cups lined up like badges of honour. Caroline at the centre of it all, of course. Posture immaculate, expression serene, radiating the confidence of a woman who has never once wondered if she might be wrong.
It’s nine forty-five.
She's been in for at least two hours.
Caroline is always in early. Early to arrive. Early to judge. Early to remind everyone, without ever saying it out loud, that she is the gold standard and the rest of us are merely decorative.
My screen blinks with new messages. Urgent. All of them. None addressed to me directly, exactly. Just forwarded on by people who have decided that reception is where problems go to be quietly absorbed.
I deal with the first one. Then the second. Book a meeting room. Cancel a meeting room. Rebook the same meeting room because someone has decided the light in the other one feelsaggressive.
I smirk at a man walking past who nods at me like we’re mates. We are not. He just can’t remember my name and is hoping confidence will cover it.
The phone sits silent for a moment. I savour it. Silence is rare here. It’s usually followed by someone asking me to fix something that was never broken.
