The Surgeon is angry because I insisted that he apologize for insulting me over the telephone last week.
He’d been entertaining negative fantasies about what I might have done when he wasn’t around. I had no idea that he’d been brewing till he unloaded on me halfway through the conversation, inhibitions stifled by booze. The exchange was bizarre to me, because I literally had no idea what he was talking about. He was accusing me of preposterous things. At first I actually thought that he was pulling my leg.
Well, I got off the phone. After thinking about it, I decided that I couldn’t let it slide—inebriation was no excuse for that level of paranoia and hostility. My dignity and self-esteem required an apology before I could let him be close to me again. So, I texted him and he called me in between cases.
“Hi! What’s going on?” he asked.
“Hi! Are you still at work? Do you have a little time to talk?”
“Well, I’m in between cases, so I have a few minutes! Let’s talk! What did you want to talk about?”
“Um, I’m not sure if we should discuss this right now, because you don’t have much time,” I said.
He insisted, so I cautiously elaborated.
Flash forward to today—
He is laying above me, on top of me, the buttons of his shirt pressing into my chest. He smells good. It is difficult for me not to be overwhelmed by his touch and all this physical contact. I am seldom touched in my day-to-day life. When I am, there are barriers—gloves, implements by proxy. I am not at all sentimental, but I cannot deny the primordial longing his presence evokes within me. It makes me feel drugged.
He grinds his thumbs into the flesh on my inner arm, just below the armpit. It hurts. I make a high-pitched moan, but don’t resist much. I suddenly remember Heinrich shaking me by the hair on my head and telling me that it was adorable when I made a sound like a doggie squeak toy.
He quickly sheds his shirt and undershirt and flips me over. Covers my mouth with his palm. He penetrates me, lays his weight on me, doesn’t let up. His body is hot like an engine.
He says he knows what happened to me in May.
I gasp through his hand, “What you mean? What happened in May?”
He says he had me followed.
I am frightened and confused. I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I also feel very cared about.
He pinches my nostrils closed with his fingers, muffling my air intake. After a moment’s deliberation, I move with him instead of resisting. He lets my nose go and I inhale sweet sweet oxygen. I feel overwhelmed. I feel obliterated. The rawness, the intensity. I am out of my head. I am literally out of my head. It is better than all the alcohol and drugs in the world (at least that I’ve ever tried). I shake like a leaf and click my jaws together.
He rides me like a horse; breaks me like a horse, wears me out. My mind is blank for now.