I nod again, because she’s right and she knows she’s right and there’s no point pretending otherwise.
“I will,” I say. “Book something. I promise.”
“Good,” she says, like a woman who has heard that before and will believe it when she sees it.
I shift in my chair. “What about tablets?”
She doesn’t sigh and I appreciate that. “They can help in certain cases,” she says. “But, given that you’re having spontaneous erections and there are no physical indicators, medication could mask the issue rather than address it. You might find it adds pressure rather than relieving it.”
“Brilliant,” I mutter.
She studies me for a moment. “Mr Corbin, please don’t think there is something wrong with you. This is your body responding to a change in circumstances. If you address the underlying cause, function usually follows.”
Function. Such a hopeful word.
She prints something, hands it to me, and stands. “If you change your mind about the referral, call us. And, if things worsen, don’t wait.”
I stand as well, more carefully this time, and thank her, because, despite everything, this has been oddly reassuring.
At the door, she adds, “And, for what it’s worth, you’re not unusual. Men just don’t talk about it.”
I nod. “Yes. We’re very committed to suffering quietly.”
She smiles, dry and knowing. “Only when it actually matters. Give a man a mild cold and he starts drafting his will.”
I huff a laugh despite myself.
“But something that affects confidence, intimacy, identity?” she continues. “Suddenly it’s all stoicism and silence. Which isn’t terribly helpful.”
“Point taken,” I say.
“Good,” she replies. “Because talking about it is usually the first thing that helps.”
She opens the door, already done with me in the nicest possible way. “Good luck. And do book that therapist. Preferably one who exists.”
I step back into the corridor, dignity mostly intact, and realise that was possibly less humiliating than I thought it would be.
And that says more about me than it does about doctors.
3
Recalibrating in Silence
Geoff
Jasper and I areperched on the bar stools by the counter, the ones that have somehow become reserved for us only. We’re technically investors, not loiterers, and Jasper enjoys reminding the staff whenever he’s in a mood.
From here, we can watch Theo work: lining up cups, juggling orders, and calling things out to his staff in what he insists is decent German but sounds more like a confused Arnold Schwarzenegger doing community theatre. He displays typical middle child commitment: full of confidence and dubious pronunciation.
The Kaiser’s Mug smells incredible. Butter, sugar, roasted beans. Theo has built himself something solid here. Something that works. Given where he started, that still feels faintly miraculous.
Theo slides two Viennese Melange towards us without asking. He never asks. He knows.
“Careful,” he says to Jasper. “That’s hot.”
“Unlike your accent,” Jasper replies, immediately stealing a biscuit fromthe jar.
Theo swats Jasper’s hand a second too late. “Pay for that.”
