Wine Makes My Legs Spread

Author's Note:

This is my contribution to the On The Job Challenge 2023. I implore you to not take it too seriously. Similar to the protagonist, Lola, there isn't much beneath the surface. If you think you've misplaced your sense of humour, the doctor in this story is adept at using his fingers to search internal cavities for made-up things and I'm sure he would be more than happy for you to take two as long as you don't call him in the morning.

If that isn't clear enough, this story is a light-hearted humour piece about a doctor and patient acting inappropriately during a medical appointment.

***

I didn't know why Dr. Wood was giving me that dubious look, but I was not impressed by his actual lack of professionalism.

After all, I was his patient. It was his responsibility to listen to and address my concerns. Not to sit there and judge me for them, like some kind of judgemental doctor person.

Yet there he sat, beige-ish pink lips parted and one thick eyebrow raised as he studied me from behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

Honestly. What were they teaching doctors about how to treat people these days? How did he even graduate from doctor school without learning such basic things as how not to make his patient feel like an absolute bimbo when bringing sensitive but completely valid concerns to him?

It was probably because of his looks. There was a distinct shortage of good-looking doctors in Southbush, which I assumed meant there was a shortage of them everywhere. So the doctor school was probably pushing through all the tall, good-looking doctor students who had even the tiniest shred of intelligence, even if they were judgemental jerks like Dr. Wood. Because who cared, after all, if Dr. Wood had only been practicing for a couple of years and made women like me feel dumb when he had thick brown hair pushed back from his forehead and a strong-cut jawline and tanned white skin that probably wasn't even good for him?

Like, hadn't he ever heard of skin cancer? He probably didn't even know how bad tanning was for you.

"Can you please repeat that for me, Mrs. Moran?" he finally said.

"Repeat it?" I said. "Weren't you listening?"

His jaw twitched. "I was. But I'd like to confirm I heard it correctly."

It took all my patience not to let out a disbelieving scoff. "I've said it twice already!"

"Yes, I realize that, but I'm not—"

"You know, maybe I should see a different doctor for this."

"In that case, you would still need to repeat the concern," he said. "Not to mention, I stayed late to take your so-called 'emergency' appointment, so I'm the only doctor in the office right now. Now, if you could just—one more time—tell me what brought you in today?"

Sighing, I crossed one knee over the other and adjusted my pleated skirt over my thigh. Looking at a diagram on the wall of a man who was apparently very nervous and a whole system to deal with it, I took a deep breath.

"For the third time, I think I'm having a bad reaction to alcohol," I said.

"Right, I got that," Dr. Wood said. "It was the, uh, next part that I believe I misheard."

Huffing, I folded my arms across my chest. "I said I think wine seems to be the problem."

"Mm-hmm. And the reason you think wine is the problem is...?"

"I've already told you this!"

"One more time, Mrs. Moran. Please."

Uncomfortable silence filled the small examination room. I pursed my lips and stared at the nervous man on the wall for another moment, then took a deep breath and looked at Dr. Wood.

"Because it makes my legs spread," I said. "And it's pronounced 'Mor-ahhhn,' not 'Mor-anne.' And my name is Lola. I'm not... Don't... Stop defining me by my relationship to a man."

He stared at me, then closed his eyes and reached up to take his glasses off. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned towards the computer, typing something I couldn't see on the keyboard.

"Lola," he said. "What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"By... that," he repeated. "Do you mean that your legs feel weak and you have a hard time standing or—"

"Are you not listening to me at all?" I asked. "I said they spread."

"Yes, that is the word you used. But I'm having trouble understanding what you mean."

"Oh, my God." I uncrossed my legs and wrenched them apart. "Like this. They spread. Open."

His lips parted again and, almost helplessly, he looked down. Which was fair. I mean, I would be the first to admit how awesome this skirt made me look. It was a flippy pink one that flared out and showed off the pale white smoothness of my thighs. Paired with the hot pink pumps I'd treated myself to a few weeks earlier, my legs looked absolutely killer.

But it was also not fair, because Dr. Wood was supposed to be a fucking professional.

"Do you understand what I mean now?" I asked.

He stared for a moment longer, then sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"Unfortunately, I believe I do," he muttered, turning back to his computer.

I blinked, bringing my thighs back together. "Wait, what do you mean 'unfortunately'? Is it that bad?"

Dr. Wood shook his head, not looking at me. "Well, it's not great. Are you taking any medications? Or have you recently stopped taking any medications?"

I frowned. "Do you think something might be causing side effects?"

"Oh, it's a side effect of something, alright." Dr. Wood typed something on the keyboard. "So, medications? Maybe something like Loxitane or Prolixin? Clozaril? Zyprexa?"

"Um, no, I don't think so," I said. "I'm just on birth control. And like, my daily vitamins. Oh, and sometimes I take ibuprofen. Would any of that interact badly with wine?"

"Unlikely." He typed something quickly again, then pushed the keyboard away and turned towards me. "Mrs. Moran—"

"Lola," I said stiffly.

"Right. Lola." He held a hand up apologetically. "Can you please talk me through how you came to suspect that you had developed such a, uh... uncommon intolerance to wine?"

"Is that absolutely necessary?" I asked.

"It is," he said. "I need to understand how this came up so I can properly, um, assess the severity of the situation."

I curled my bottom lip between my teeth, chewing on it lightly. My pink lipstick was extremely kiss proof and long lasting, of course, but I still didn't want to risk messing it up. Dr. Wood waited, but when I didn't say anything after a moment, he leaned forward.

"Lola, it's very important that you tell me how this came up so I can help you," he said kindly.

It was that, more than anything, that worried me. So far, Dr. Wood had been aloof at best and condescending at worst. And I knew that wasn't just me being biased. As one of the only doctors in the small town where I lived, everyone knew about his reputation.

Some said it was simply because he had to keep a distance from his patients, and since most of the residents in Southbush were patients of his, he just seemed to be unfriendly. Others said it was because he was snobby about being in his early thirties and already a practicing doctor and super crazy hot. And still others said it was because he was used to living in places much larger and trendier than Southbush and wasn't a fan of our small town ways.

Which was very understandable. I would have never chosen to live in Southbush if it wasn't for my husband.

But before that appointment, I'd never met the man. My usual doctor worked out of the office on the other side of town, but seeing her for something as sensitive as this wasn't an option on account of the fact that we were related.

Sort of, anyway. I mean, she was my husband's brother's wife's sister. So I didn't exactly want her to know what I was there for.

It would get back to Victor far too easily.

The point was, Dr. Wood was known for being somewhat of a prick, which I had now experienced firsthand as he made me repeat my very sensitive problem three times before trying to do anything about it. So the sudden change to someone who had a kind, gentle tone and an attempt at a non-threatening expression on his face made me think that this might be a bit more serious than I'd thought.

And that was scary.

"Well," I said slowly. "As it turns out, when I consume wine, my legs inevitably seem to... spread."

"Right," Dr. Wood said.

"Right," I repeated.

He waited for a moment, then pressed his lips together again. "Lola, you already told me that part. I need to know how you discovered this."

"I just don't see how that's relevant," I said.

"I wouldn't expect you to," he said. "Seeing as I'm the one with the medical degree."

Ah, good. Dr. Asshole was back.

"Right, and that makes you so much more smarter and more knowledgeable about my own body than me," I snapped.

"No, it doesn't," he said. "But seeing as you came to me to get a diagnosis and treatment for this, I would say that of all the people in this room, I'm the most likely to figure out what's going on. And to do that, I need you to answer my questions."

Damnit. That was a good point. I pressed my lips together, frowning down at a spot on the floor.

"Well... I didn't, really," I said. "Discover it, I mean."

"You didn't?"

"No... I mean, yes. But I..." I sighed. "I didn't know it was a problem or like, that it wasn't normal or whatever."

"Well, it is normal. Legs generally have the physical capability of being spread. If they didn't, that might be cause for concern, but—"

"No, but after drinking wine." I picked at one of my nails, carefully ensuring I didn't chip the pink polish as I fidgeted. "It wasn't until my, um, hu... hus..." I stopped and sighed, sadness washing over me. "My husband filed for divorce."

"Oh," Dr. Wood said. "I'm very, uh... to hear that."

"Thank you," I said, then frowned and looked up. "Wait, you're very what to hear that?"

His look of uncertainty almost made him look human. "Uh, well, I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing. Are you happy or sad about this?"

"Sad, of course," I said, almost disgusted. "I don't want to get divorced."

"Right. So then, I'm very sorry to hear that. You must be having a very difficult time right now."

"I... am," I said, almost stunned by my own admission.

Which was sad, too, in a way.

Hardly anyone had asked about me or realized how upset I was about Victor filing for divorce. My family hadn't liked Victor in the first place, so the most sympathy I'd gotten there was a firm "I told you so" from my mom. And my friends... well... most of them had been ignoring me.

Especially after Victor told them about my little problem.

"He said he didn't love me anymore," I said, not quite able to look at Dr. Wood. "I thought maybe we could fix it. I kept trying to, anyway. But then I woke up one day and he'd packed some bags and left, and when I called up my best friend Amber-Leigh to tell her, that's when she told me."

"Told you what?"

"That Victor told all our friends about how my legs spread after drinking wine. He never seemed to mind, really, since we would... you know."

"Have intercourse?" Dr. Wood asked.

"Ew, no," I said. "We'd just have sex."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. "Of course. My apologies."

"Well, I didn't know it was a problem," I said. "Except then Amber-Leigh said it was because I shouldn't be spreading my legs for people after drinking wine and that it was no wonder Victor left. And then she hung up and all my other friends have been ignoring me. Darla-Ann even blocked me on, like, every platform."

Dr. Wood blinked at me, silent for a moment, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together.

"Lola," he said. "Was the only person you 'spread your legs' for your husband?"

My mouth dropped open and I sat back in my chair, shocked. "Of course! What do you think I am, some kind of cheater?"

"Well—"

"I would never," I snapped. "How dare you? I love... loved. Loved him. I would never, ever, ever in my life cheat on anyone."

"I'm just covering all bases," he said patiently. "If there were another person you'd had intercourse with, that may explain the, uh, problem."

"I told you, I don't have intercourse. I just have normal sex."

His jaw twitched. "Yes. That is what I meant. But you haven't been with anyone except your husband?"

"Well, I mean, I have," I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Like, before. It wasn't like I was saving myself until marriage," I said stiffly.

"But you weren't with anyone else after meeting your husband?" he pressed.

"No, I swear," I said, then bit my lip. "I would never do that to him. But do you think..."

"Think what?"

I had to look up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling to keep my eyes from watering. "Oh, God."

"Lola? What's wrong?"

"Do you think Victor might have had something that caused this?" I whispered.

Dr. Wood brought his clasped-together hands to his mouth, looking to the side as he apparently thought over my theory.

"I mean, I never thought he would cheat on me," I said, my voice small. "And I got that test done like, two weeks ago. But maybe he's saying I did because... because..."

I couldn't finish the sentence and Dr. Wood very kindly didn't make me.

"What test?" he asked.

"For... you know. Crabs and stuff."

"An STI panel?"

I nodded. "I always do one as part of my physical. But do they test for whatever causes legs to spread after drinking wine?"

"Uh... no," Dr. Wood said. "They do not."

No amount of staring at the lights was going to help. "Oh, God. What if he did cheat? And then he gave me whatever causes that? And then he divorced me because—"

I burst into tears.

"Fuck," Dr. Wood said.

I ignored his unprofessionalism as I buried my face in my hands. A moment later, the sound of plastic wheels rolling across linoleum filled the exam room. Then Dr. Wood was next to me, pressing a tissue into my hands and putting a muscular arm around my shoulder.

"S-S-Sorry," I sniffled.

"It's okay, Lola," he said, his voice low and comforting. "You're going through a lot right now. No matter what anyone says, crying really does help sometimes."

"Victor always said crying is stupid. It doesn't accomplish anything."

"Is Victor a doctor?"

I shook my head.

"Then don't listen to him. It's my professional opinion that a good cry can solve a number of ailments, especially ones like this."

I blew my nose into the tissue, then frowned. "Crying can stop my legs from spreading?"

He laughed.

I don't think he meant to. The little chuckle that burst out seemed entirely unintentional, but it was clear as day. Another round of tears welled up in my eyes and I jerked away from him.

"Sure, laugh at me," I said. "Just because I'm not a doctor like you—"

"I'm not laughing at you," he said.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

"You are!" I slammed the tissue down on my thigh, which accomplished nothing except making my thigh jiggle beneath my skirt. "You're laughing at me. You think I'm dumb. You think I'm stupid because I can't figure out why m-my husband would divorce me and the only thing I could think of was that maybe it was this leg-spreading thing and if I just fix it, he'll come back."

I wanted to say more, but another sob wracked me and I buried my head in my hands again.

Dr. Wood didn't say anything right away. Instead, he let me cry, waiting until the sobs turned to whimpers.

"Sorry," I muttered. "You're right."

"Right about what?" he asked. "I haven't said anything."

Sniffling, I wiped my fingers under my eyes. A black streak ran from knuckle to fingertip and I cringed. Just great. Now my makeup was probably all smeared and my mascara was running down my cheeks.

"Right about me being stupid," I said.

"I, at no point, have said you were stupid," he said.

"You thought it."

"I—"

"Don't lie to me." I went to wipe my face with my hands, but before I could, Dr. Wood handed me another tissue. I took it gratefully, dabbing the skin under my eyes and wiping my nose. "Everyone thinks so. Victor thinks so. I know that."

He sighed but didn't say anything. For a moment, the only sound was my shaky breathing and wet sniffles.

"Lola," he finally said. "You will not be able to fix this."

My mouth dropped open and I looked up at him, eyes wide. He was staring back at me from behind the wire rims of his glasses, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

"Your husband is an idiot," he said. "An absolute idiot. I don't know why he wants a divorce, but it's clear to me from what you've said that he's not worth chasing after. Not by a gorgeous, loyal, dedicated woman like you."

"But he's my husband."

"And you deserve better."

I laughed dryly. "You can't say that. You don't even know me."

"Well, maybe not," he said. "But I know you came in here and advocated for yourself, even when I didn't quite know what you meant. And I know you're a fiery young woman who cares about her health. You're unapologetically yourself, which I have a vast amount of respect for. You are the type of person who thinks the best of people, even when they've wronged, like Victor has. I know that your last blood pressure test was perfectly average, which is a good thing. And I know that you have blonde hair and blue eyes and that you're a Gemini."

I looked up at him, my lips parted. "What? How could you tell I'm a Gemini?"

An amused but slightly abashed smile spread across his face. "Uh, well, I saw your birthday on your chart. So I guess I know you're twenty-four."

"Oh," I said.

"I also know you're very beautiful," he continued. "And that even though your husband is giving that up for unknown reasons, you're going to find someone who loves you for who you are. You're going to have no problem finding a man that deserves someone as wonderful as you are, Lola."

And that...

Somehow that hit me.

I don't know why. Maybe it was the earnestness in his eyes, which I was discovering were a light brown colour that had little amber flecks in them. Maybe it was that he was the first person I told any of this to who seemed to believe me.

Or maybe... maybe it was just hearing that there was no hope. That after Victor had served me with those papers and I'd spent weeks desperately wondering what I could do to make him take them back, someone just outright said the thing that I'd been dreading.

I couldn't fix it.

And honestly... there was relief in knowing that. Sure, it could have been how he told me. That he dropped that bombshell and then explained to me why I shouldn't want to fix it in the first place. But of everyone in my life, Dr. Asshole with the stick up his butt was the one who comforted me.

Who believed me.

Who thought I deserved better.

So maybe it was just nice to be treated with a bit of kindness, even when I had makeup streaking down my face and my eyes were puffy and red. That instead of being told I was dumb all the time, he was telling me nice things about me. Like that I was fiery and wonderful and...

"You think I'm beautiful?" I asked softly.

He froze, lips parted as he stared at me, then cleared his throat.

"I mean, objectively," he said. "Of course. You have a very symmetrical face."

"I do?"

"Uh, genetically speaking, yes."

"And that's good?"

"In my professional opinion... it's very good."

"Oh." I pressed my lips together. "Thank you. I think your face is very symmetrical, too."

I wasn't entirely sure what 'symmetrical' meant, but Dr. Wood seemed to appreciate the compliment and chuckled softly, his tanned cheeks turning the slightest hint of pink. "Thank you, Lola."