White waves a dismissive hand. “You’ll get there. You get older, so do your patients. Lots of prolapse in your future.” He laughs at his own joke. “By the way, had a few of your patients on my schedule lately. You too lazy to do Paps every year now?”
“They aren’t indicated yearly—”
My pager goes off, alerting us that the patient is ready for me. I set a hand on Asher’s arm. “Time to work, Doctor Foley.”
He shoots off a quick goodbye to White, and we step into the hall.
“Guy’s a tool sometimes, isn’t he?” I say on the jaunt to the OR.
“He’s just from a different generation.” Asher’s tone is light, but his body has remodeled itself—smile gone, shoulders a tad droopier. Hmm. What’s up with that?
In the OR, he shakes it off and holds his patient’s hand while I put her to sleep. He’s the only surgeon in all the departments who does this. The patient has bled for twomonths straight, and this morning when I spoke with her, she wore a shirt with a picture of a uterus that read,Tearingdown my baby factory to build a playground.Despite her excitement for the hysterectomy, she was shaking in her sassy shirt. But she’s all smiles for him, his jokes and his compassionate hand-holding.
His patientslovehim. It’s remarkable, really. He draws affection from all directions, like his personality is tinged with bunny rabbits and sugar cookies.
When the propofol kicks in, he releases her hand and lets the nurses take over, then scrubs in and claps his gloved hands. “It’s a beautiful day to kill uteruses, yeah?”
As usual, the team—all female—bursts into laughter. He grabs the sterile drapes and gets to work. All’s good with the patient, so I snatch my phone to rid it of the million notifications. I sigh at the repeat email from the hospital regarding optional Dragon training—a device that boasts voice-to-text for medical charts. I’ve suffered enough similar training sessions to last me a lifetime. Dragon is utterly useless for anesthesiologists anyway, so I don’t know why they keep pushing it on us.
I delete it, watch a few TikToks, then open EverX, an exclusive hookup app for doctors and other professionals. I’m picky with my matches, but it’s been several weeks since my last date, andthe itchhas returned.
Thanks to Asher, I’ve got more and better friends now than I ever have. He lures people like bees to nectar, and due to my near-constant presence at his side, I’ve gathered a thriving friend group to negate the threat of loneliness. Totally separate from that is my sex life, fulfilled by strangers because my therapist implies I’m emotionally crippled, though she uses fancier words. But it isn’t my fault the concept of lastinglove from anyone except my sister feels very much like a horrific lie. Trauma does that to a person.
I’m self-aware enough to know I’m broken, but not enough to fix myself. My therapist has tried innumerable times to banish these beliefs from my psyche—to no avail. Some lessons simply can’t be unlearned.
Horniness, however, is a staple of the human condition, and I’m just as subject to my libido as the rest of the population.
It isn’t something I advertise, though. We’ve come so far in society, but women are still vulnerable to censorious looks and gossip when they engage in casual sex.
Playas? Cool. Sluts? Not so much.
I don’t need that in my life.
But I do need sex sans emotions.
On my phone, a guy named Sebastian—Sebastian?Definitely nothis real name—messages me. Based on his side view profile pic, Ithinkhe’s attractive. Brown hair. Dark eyes. Lean.
Hey girl
sup
so from 1 to america, how free are you tonight?
Syria
damn girl. That’s cold.
I glance up at the monitors. All’s fine.
I might have a minute. What you thinking?
I like it simple
dtf?
“Where you want to eat tonight, baby doll?” Asher pulls my attention to him.
His gaze is trained on the monitor, his skilled hands manipulating the instruments like the pro he is.
