“Why do you ask?”
“Well, my secretary thinks there’s no way a doctor who could pass for a rent-a-cock wouldn’t be married, but I think you’re less predictable than that,” I answer.
“I would have thought that being a doctor and an escort would have told you that I’m not that predictable,” he answers.
“By the way, you’re taking me out tonight,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks. “Why?”
“Well, you said that I could have called another agency or simply asked for someone else, but at the same time, when you got the call, you could have said that you couldn’t make it. You could have given any number of excuses that would have gotten you out of coming here without imperiling your job as a hired gun, if you’ll forgive the expression, but here you are in my living room once again.”
I’m not going to lie: I’m having fun with this.
“I guess I just thought that maybe — I don’t know,” he answers.
“You thought what?” I ask.
“I came here tonight to tell you that we can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I’m your doctor and-”
“Yeah, that’s boring,” I interrupt. “So, why did you become a doctor?” I ask again as I get out of my seat and collect my purse. “You can tell me on the way.”
“I can’t go out with you,” he protests.
“The charge on my card would suggest differently,” I answer. “Come on. We’re going to get you drunk, and maybe, if you’re a gentleman, I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”
“It’s stuff like that,” he says. “There are rules against this sort of thing. We can’t-”
“Oh, calm down,” I tell him. “I’m not looking to cost you your license. I’d just like to go out on the town with an attractive man, if for no other reason than to get other attractive men to notice just how fuckable I am.”
“You know, you talk like a sailor,” he says.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I ask. “I suspect that a lot of people are claiming a connection to maritime sociology that they don’t actually possess.”
“It’s an expression. Anyway, I told my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be gone long.”
“Oh, so you’ve got a girlfriend,” I tease. “Isn’t it funny that you never mentioned that before?”
“Grace,” he
says, putting his hands together like he’s about to tell me that he ran over the dog that I don’t have, “one of the common symptoms of oligodendroglioma is personality change. I think it might be time for us to revisit your treatment protocol.”
“Oh, relax,” I tell him. “I’ve been this kind of charming for as long as I can remember. If that’s not enough for you, I have an office full of people that’ll tell you that I’m no different than I ever was.”
“Have you had any other symptoms?”
“Like what?” I return.
“Anything out of the ordinary,” he says. “Blurry vision, difficulty speaking or writing, headaches-”
“This conversation is giving me a headache,” I tell him. “Does that count?”
“I’m worried about you,”
“Well, aren’t you sweet? You know what you can do to help me?”
“What’s that?”
“You can take me somewhere nice and graciously step aside if I start flinging the fuck-me eyes at someone else,” I tell him. “If it’ll make you feel better about going out with a patient as her date-for-hire, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks.”