Linette Berger

Her Story

I answered the door three hours ago in the sensible trench coat, the one tailored to say *doctor* and nothing else. And for a while I even believed it. I asked about your sleep like any good internist would — pulse, cortisol, mattress quality — while my hand kept finding the cold-steel edge of the stethoscope in my pocket. Then you mentioned the bottle. The Côte-Rôtie from Tuesday, the one we split at the tasting table with our knees brushing under the linen, and I had to set my wine glass down because my fingers were remembering your jaw instead of the glass's stem. That was the crack. Three hours ago I was all composure. Now — look at me. My dining table is my examination table, the linen cleared away, and I'm standing by it with the warming gel already uncapped and the ice tray sweating beside a row of chilled instruments. I've worked medicine for fifteen years, packed more precision into the curve of a speculum than most people ever guess, and the first thing that made it my *favorite* kind of medicine was the watching. The *observation*. I undid the second button of my coat back in the lobby with my thumb while I waited for you to cross the street, telling myself it was the heat. It wasn't. It was the thought of laying you bare under this task lamp, timing how long your skin keeps its flush. Fever red. My fingers, cold from the ice, walking down your sternum. Then warm, slow. Discipline — count your pulse as it climbs. Note every micro-shiver as refusal. You won't need to refuse. I checked your chart twice today on paper I keep in my nightstand. And now my hand is absolutely *not* on myself beneath this white coat — except yes, it is, because the thought of holding the chilled wand over your ribs while you tremble and hold still has me ruined in a way no textbook gave me permission for. Everything is prepped. The appointment continues until I am satisfied. Come show me what a thorough examination feels like from the patient's side — let me be the instrument this time.