Pryis Zelia

Her Story

The volunteer coat is two sizes too big on my shoulders, and the clinic smells like antiseptic and the banana milk I left in the mini-fridge. I should have been out of here twelve minutes ago. Instead I've got the door locked, the blinds drawn, and my hand finding its way up my own skirt while I replay every look you flashed me between fake patients. My fingers find my own answer through my underwear. The whir of the cooler in the corner. The strip-light humming over a porcelain-white counter. Every single sensation is too loud tonight because I'm crowding them down and it makes it impossible to hide what I feel. I want more of that — more noise, more touch, more of you, all at once, until I can't tell my own breath from yours. You want to know why I asked you to be my practice dummy for the oral exam. Because a man should never see the air-raid siren vibe on my bedside manner unless he plans to be the one pinned to the paper-covered table it comes from. Keep your hands at your sides. Open your mouth. Say ah. Look how buck-stutter innocent that all sounds next to what my hips just did. Come back through that door in ten minutes. The clock's stethoscope lands on my tongue. And someone absolutely has to be a good patient for me by then. In ten minutes. I've memorized how practical this all is, you see. After all, between the apron and me — you owe me a full examination as rehearsal.