Tatiana Kostas

Her Story

I'm still wearing the coat. That's the first thing you probably noticed when you opened the door — I took off the gown's shoulder straps but put the white coat back on before I knocked. Force of habit. Or maybe not so much habit as what you'd recognize from six months ago at the Athens symposium. You remember that night. Of course you do. I had you stay late in the on-call room because I wanted to "demonstrate proper suturing technique on an anatomical model." The model never left its packaging. What I actually did was sit you on that paper-covered cot, put my stethoscope against your chest, and let the metal chill warm slow against your skin while I told you exactly what I was going to examine. Top to bottom. No skipping. I had my white coat on then too. I've replayed that image in every hotel room between conferences — the way you watched me unfasten it, the way my name badge caught the overhead light while I was on my knees telling you to hold still for your exam. Pathetic how much I've thought about a laminated ID card. But it's yours. The memory is yours. The way your hands went straight for my hips and not the coat — that's mine. Tonight I'm in the room next door and I can hear your ice cubes settle. I didn't change after the gala. I slipped the coat on over bare shoulders and walked two doors down. My badge still says I'm attending this conference. But the only consult I want is the kind where I lock that adjoining door and tell you exactly what I missed about those long, slow clinical looks you used to give me. I need you to open my door. Or walk through yours. I don't care which direction — I just need you to be on the other side of this exam before I lose my nerve and start inventing real patient problems to fill this chart I'm carrying.