Clinical

In bed he was always cautious, deliberate as a surgeon, gently scraping at the tumor of her libido which lodged so close upon her heart. He used too much anaesthetic, which left her groggy and often sleepy. Then, as she lay dulled of all sensation, he would delicately probe her silenced body with an embrace like icy forceps—deft and skillful, safely sterile—as if he wished to keep her natural warmth off of his clean-scrubbed skin.

When finally she found the nerve to tell him she was leaving for a physician proposing treatment more holistic, she hoped that eventually he would understand. This is how she phrased it: I've no insurance, she had told him, I've no love savings to hand over. I know I'm needy and a burden. I know that my case is hopeless. Your skill, your precious, refined skill, is simply lost on me.

And then she said: It also seems that I'm allergic—this was her final, clinching statement—to the flat and so chaste touch of doctor's latex-covered hands.