Flesh of Deceit

The pills sat in a glass dish on my nightstand. Tiny white ovals. I counted them every morning, the way some people count rosary beads. Nine left. Nine more nights of swallowing one with my coffee, of telling myself this was just a delay, not a denial.

Mark rolled over and pressed his chest against my back. His hand found my hip, fingers tracing the waistband of my pajama shorts. “You’re up early.”

“Clinic starts at eight.” I didn’t turn. His touch felt different lately. Heavier. Like he was measuring something.

“Skip it.” His lips brushed my shoulder. “Call in sick. We haven’t had a slow morning in weeks.”

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But Dr. Morrison had already written me up twice for arriving late. And Horace Timmons had an appointment at nine. Horace, who complained if I was thirty seconds behind schedule. Who sat in exam room three with his stained suspenders and his wandering eyes.

“I can’t.” I reached for my robe. “Reschedule for Saturday.”

Mark’s hand fell away. “Saturday. Right.” He rolled onto his back. “You’re working Saturday too.”

“It’s double time. We need it.”

He didn’t argue. That was the worst part. He just stared at the ceiling while I pulled on my clothes, and neither of us said what we were both thinking. That the pills were still in the dish. That I’d been taking them for two years now. That every time my period came, I felt relief instead of disappointment, and I hated myself for it.

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and old carpet. I unlocked exam room three at 8:47 and flipped on the lights. The paper roll on the table was nearly empty. I replaced it, checked the stirrups, made sure the speculum warmer was plugged in. Busy work. The kind of motions that kept my hands moving so my brain couldn’t catch up.

Horace shuffled in at 9:04. He didn’t knock. He never knocked.

“Doc.” He dropped into the chair by the door, wheezing. “You look tired. Man keeping you up at night?”

“Blood pressure first, Mr. Timmons.” I wrapped the cuff around his arm. His skin was leathery, spotted with age. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap aftershave.

“Call me Horace. How many times I gotta tell you?” He grinned. His teeth were yellow, crooked. “You’re too formal. Pretty girl like you.”

I pumped the cuff. “140 over 90. That’s high.”

“It’s the sight of you. Gets my heart going.”

“Have you been taking your Lisinopril?”

He waved a thick hand. “Tastes like chalk. Spit ’em out half the time.”

I wrote it down. Noncompliant. History of hypertension. Possible medication adjustment needed. The words were clean, clinical. They didn’t capture the way his eyes crawled over my body. The way his tongue wet his lips when I bent to check his chart.

“I need a urine sample,” I said. “And blood work.”

“Again?” He groaned. “You drew blood last month.”

“Your potassium levels were elevated. We need to recheck.”

He stood, slow and grumbling. “Fine. But you owe me a lollipop after.”

I handed him the cup and pointed to the bathroom down the hall. He took it, his fingers brushing mine. I pulled back. He laughed, a wet, rattling sound.

“Sensitive,” he said. “I like that.”

I waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before I exhaled. My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the counter and counted to ten. The clock on the wall ticked. 9:11. Seven more hours.

The blood draw was worse. He insisted I do it myself instead of the phlebotomist. “You got soft hands,” he said. “Don’t hurt as bad.”

I tied the tourniquet around his bicep. His arm was thick, veined, the skin loose over old muscle. I found a vein, swabbed the spot, slid the needle in. He didn’t flinch.

“You ever think about having kids, Doc?”

I filled the first vial. “That’s personal, Mr. Timmons.”

“Horace.” He watched the blood darken the tube. “I had a son. Died when he was three. Pneumonia. Didn’t have the medicine back then. Not like now.”

I filled the second vial. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.” His voice dropped. “Wife left after. Said I wasn’t the same. Maybe I wasn’t.” He looked at me, and for a moment, the leer was gone. Just an old man with a dead kid and a dead marriage. “You got a man?”

“Yes.”

“He good to you?”

I pulled the needle out, pressed a cotton ball to the site. “He tries.”

“That’s not the same as being good.”

I taped the cotton down. “You’re all set. I’ll have the results by Friday.”

He didn’t move. “You ever think about what you’d do if you couldn’t have kids?”

The question hit like a punch. I kept my face neutral. “I don’t think about it at all.”

“Liar.” He stood, slow. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re scared. You’re running out of time, and you know it.” He stepped closer. “Thirty-four? Thirty-five?”

“I’m not discussing this.”

“Tick tock, Doc.” He tapped his temple. “I know things. I see things. You got maybe a year left. Maybe less. After that, the door closes.”

“Please leave, Mr. Timmons.”

He shrugged. “Just saying. Nature don’t wait for nobody. Not even pretty doctors who think they’re too good for the likes of me.”

He shuffled out. I stood there, the used needle still in my gloved hand, my heart hammering. The clock ticked. 9:23.

I threw the needle in the sharps bin. I washed my hands. I wrote up his chart. Normal visit. Patient stable. Follow-up in one month.

But his words stuck. They burrowed under my skin. Tick tock. Running out of time.

I called Mark on my lunch break. It went to voicemail. “Hey. It’s me. I was thinking. Maybe we could talk tonight. About the pills. About everything.” I paused. “I love you.”

I hung up. The cafeteria was empty. I ate a sandwich I didn’t taste and stared at the wall.

At 4:47, I was alone in the supply closet, restocking gloves. The door clicked shut behind me. I turned.

Horace stood there. His face was different. Blank. Purposeful.

“Mr. Timmons. The clinic is closed.”

“I know.” He locked the door. “I came back.”

“You need to leave.”

“No.” He stepped forward. “I don’t.”

I reached for the door. His hand caught my wrist. His grip was iron. “You’re gonna listen to me, Doc. You’re gonna listen, and then you’re gonna understand.”

“Let me go.”

“You think I don’t know what I am?” His voice was low. “Fat old man. Ugly. Pathetic. I know. I’ve always known.” His thumb pressed into my pulse point. “But I also know you. I’ve watched you for months. You’re empty inside. You’re wasting the last good eggs you’ve got on a man who doesn’t even try.”

“That’s not true.”

“He doesn’t fight for you.” Horace’s face was inches from mine. “I would. I’d give anything for one more chance. One more life to raise. One more shot at being something before I rot.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m desperate.” He pulled me closer. “And desperate men do desperate things.”

His mouth found mine. It was dry, sour, insistent. I pushed against his chest. He didn’t budge. His hand slid down my back, gripped my hip, pressed me against the shelves. Boxes of latex gloves fell around us.

“Please,” I whispered against his lips.

“Please what?” His hand slid lower. “Please stop? Or please don’t?”

I couldn’t answer.

Because somewhere, buried beneath the horror, a voice whispered the truth.

I didn’t know.