His voice does the thing I remember. Just a shadow of an accent underneath the consonants, a faint rasp that is entirely recognizable. He's looking at me the way he looked at me in the sedan, except now he's upright and easily the most composed person I have ever seen in my life.
I close the door behind me slowly in a bid to gather my bearings. I knew he was big. I even knew he was handsome inthat threatening sort of way…but for some reason, seeing him here has thrown me completely off balance.
"Good morning," I say.
It comes out professional. I don't know how. I don't know how any part of me is working right now because I can feel my pulse in my throat where his fingers pressed, and I can feel the place on my jaw where his hand was before that. It’s so visceral that none of those sensations feel like memories. They feel like they’re happening now. Like his fingers are on my skin now.
I walk to the counter and wash my hands.
I keep them under the water longer than I need to, and I watch the soap lather between my fingers while I count backwards from ten in my head. Ten. Nine. Eight. By one I am a medical assistant again and he is a patient. I dry my hands on a paper towel and turn around.
He's watching me.
"I'm Sadie, and I’ll be assisting Dr Mehta today" I say. It's what I say to every patient. "I'm going to take your vitals and do a quick check of your incision, and then Dr. Mehta will be in with you. Can you confirm your name and date of birth for me, please?"
"Nikolai Zhirinovsky." He spells his surname without being asked, then rattles off his date of birth.
Thirty-seven. My brain snatches at the number and holds it like it matters, then I try to force it to let it go.
I pick up the blood pressure cuff.
"Can you roll your other sleeve up, please?"
He does. He does it slowly enough that I have time to understand I’m going to have to put my hand on his arm in the next three seconds and I am going to have to be normal about itwhen my entire nervous system has come alive and is lighting up like a Christmas tree.
His forearm is warm under my fingers. I try to ignore the way the contact sends a zap of electricity through me.
I wrap the cuff and press the button on the machine, listening to the faint whir of it inflating. I keep my eyes on the gauge and not on him, because I know in my bones that if I look up, I’m going to lose whatever thread of composure I have left.
"One-twenty over seventy-six," I read.
"Better than last time."
My hand stalls on the Velcro. I look at him before I can stop myself.
He's smiling.
Not with his mouth, but with something in his eyes. A private amusement that I’m suddenly and overwhelmingly certain is for me and only me.
I put the blood pressure cuff down on the counter very carefully, like it's breakable, because my hands have started to shake again and I don’t want him to see it.
"Mr. Zhirinovsky."
"Nick."
"Mr. Zhirinovsky, I need to check your stitches now."
He holds out his arm.
I don't move. I stand at the counter with my back half turned, and I make myself breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Four seconds in. Six seconds out. It's a thing a nurse taught me a long time ago and it has never once failed me.
I cross the two steps to the exam table and take his arm in both hands. Unpeeling the tape at the corner of the gauze, I lift the pad away as gently as possible and frown.
The wound is healing well. The stitches are neat. Whoever put them in did a better job than any ER surgeon I've seen in five years of work, and there's no sign of redness or swelling or any of the things I am trained to look for. It's almost rude how perfect this wound is. It’s certainly not a wound that needs medical attention.
I look up at him because I can’t help it.
"Who did these?" I ask.
