He was nefariously hot. Like a soap opera villain. Smolder, bitches.
We’d heard he was a good doctor, but we hadn’t heard he was such a good looking doctor. I sit in a chair against the wall, legs crossed. My husband is on the edge of the patient table, his swinging legs dangled over the edge, the movement causing the paper that lay atop the padded vinyl table to crackle.
The door to my immediate left opens, and in walks God’s gift to women. The beautiful man glows with an ethereal beauty reserved—I’d previously presumed—for the Jolie-Pitt children. His white-silver hair is neatly trimmed and tapers into a chiseled, clean-shaven jawline. His full lips would later become the subject of my focus, but in the immediacy of his arrival, I can’t draw my gaze away from his eyes, which clearly indicate he’s part Siberian Husky. (Growl)
“I think I failed the physical exam. May I have another?”
He extends his hand, and I slip my fingers into his warm, dry palm. “You look familiar,” he says matter-of-factly. “Have we met before?”
I’m going to need to talk to our HMO about our plan’s lack of striptease coverage.
In my future dreams, yes. Presently? No. I shake my head, “I don’t think so.”
He moves on to my husband, and I’m briefly disoriented, having temporarily forgotten my spouse exists.
There’s talking, and eventually, much to my dismay, the doctor concludes the visit without doing a striptease. We leave.
We’re halfway to the coffee shop when my husband casually tosses out, “He was a good-looking guy, wasn’t he?”
I sigh a breath of relief. We can talk about the elephant in the room like adults. I don’t have to pretend that I’m blind to an irrefutable fact.
Needless to say, this came back to bite me on the arse. Because I’ve admitted the doctor was “kind of attractive” my husband assumes that my taking a shower, washing, drying, and fixing my hair, putting on a nice blouse, with nice jeans, and high heels ahead of the next appointment isn’t me looking good for me.
“You Claire!” he exclaims referencing the episode of Modern Family where, when Phil’s wife Claire, realizing firemen are coming to aid her injured husband in the middle of the night, takes the time to get dressed in her sexy jeans and to put on make-up. (Well, yeah. She might need options.)
The fact that I can’t hide my poorly suppressed smile at this accusation fuels his fire. (Someone call a fireman.)
You can whip me if you want to. I’ve been a naughty patient.
Because it’s been a few weeks, I’ve convinced myself that my initial perception of The Elephant Doctor’s impossibly good looks is some kind of mirage. And then he walks into the room, his trunk slapping me across the face. After a moment of stunned silence, he starts talking about my husband’s health. Not only is The Elephant Doctor stupidly beautiful, but he also is so thorough that when he asks if I have questions, the only thing I can come up with is, “How do you feel about a three-way but with two people?”
When security finishes showing us out, I turn to my husband and assure him I was kidding. He says, “Good. I can’t believe you were going to leave yourself out of that. Think he’ll call?”