I chuckle nervously. “No,” I tell her. “The main concerns that one might have depend a lot on how the chemo is administered, what the dosage is, and whether or not you practice safe sex, specifically with a condom. I would recommend waiting at least a couple of days just to be on the safe side, but — I’m sorry, why are you laughing?”
She smiles. “I guess I’m just amused at the way this night has turned out. I had hoped the topic of sex would come up under a very different context, but it’s good to have the information all the same.”
“You do know that most credible escort services prohibit their employees from having sex with clients, right?” I ask.
“I guess I was just hoping yours was a less-than-credible service,” she says. “How’s your drink?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” I answer. “You do know that nothing can happen between-”
“Shh…” she interrupts. “I know that you’re my doctor and I know where that line is, although I must say you do look rather handsome in your suit. You do clean up very well.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome,” she says. “So, how long have you been a gigolo?”
“You know, I’ve never really been fond of that term,” I answer. “It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.”
“I was going to use the phrase man whore, but you did make it pretty clear that you’re not a prostitute.”
She’s toying with me, and who could blame her?
In a sense, to her, I’m representative of the oligodendroglioma in her brain. Her reaction toward me right now, if I had to guess, is her way of trying to regain some sense of control over her situation.
I’m fine taking the hit.
Speaking of taking hits…
“You don’t mind if I light up, do you?” she asks, retrieving a small, square box from under her coffee table. “After all, you did prescribe it to me.”
“I probably shouldn’t be in the room if you do,” I tell her. “Contact high and all that.”
“Suit yourself,” she says and stuffs a glass pipe. “Keep your seat,” she says. “I’ll take it in the other room. My tolerance is still pret
ty low, so I won’t be long.”
“All right,” I tell her, and she walks out of the room.
Okay, my theory before: if she was just trying to befuddle me to empower herself in an otherwise helpless situation, I’m not sure this is the way she’d go about doing it.
But what do I know? I’m not that kind of doctor.
I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Melissa, telling her that I’m going to be home early.
I don’t have any concrete reason as to why, but I’m getting the feeling that Grace doesn’t have that many people she feels she can talk to about what’s going on.
Maybe she’s just acting out; maybe it’s a personality change from the oligodendroglioma. Regardless, while I don’t see myself staying too much longer, I no longer feel the need to just cut and run.
It’s less than a minute from the time I heard the door to the other room shut and the time I hear it open again.
“You weren’t kidding,” I tell her.
“What?”
“Your tolerance must really be low if you’re out and back that quick.”
“I’m not a stoner,” she says. “So, let’s talk.”
“All right,” I respond. “What would you like to talk about?”