An Indelicate Observation

Was I naked yet? I don’t think so, not at this point, not yet. That detail is lost in the fog of time, faded like words fingered onto a windshield when defrost finally kicks in. He faced away from me, inking in the spaces on the page in front of him. I brushed a long blonde hair from my double breasted, cerulean blue suit with the deeply pleated A skirt. It was one of my favorite outfits that helped to distill my meager courage. Garter and nylon stockings replaced pantyhose that were too painful to wear, but the navy and white pumps spoke to anyone who noticed, of some small poise I tried to cultivate. I needed him to be the one. Weary from the carrousel of candidates, each rich with promise only to disappoint in the end. I cleared my throat for my question.

A pause, his broad back and shoulders divulged acknowledgement. Had he heard me prime my vocal cords? Was he poised for my question – did he anticipate the thought I would eventually voice? His pale collar bleached harshly in the overhead glare from pink-white fluorescents, enhancing his flawless and silky dark skin. I studied the curve of his ears from behind, and his hair deftly trimmed to merge with the nape of his neck. Had he seen me, perching nervously on the chair close behind him or had he looked past me, unaware and engrossed in his own internal monologue? Did he notice I was different from the rest? – For I was different, of that I was certain. The question that troubled my thoughts was whether he would be different. So many men with promises and lies had come before him, I had almost lost count. Each one began our relationship with hope and assurance, teasing my youthful eagerness with confident projections, before slinking away into the wasteland of defeat. Surely, I couldn’t be that different from other women, and yet it seemed there was something about me that seemed to put them off. To cause them, these brash and optimistic men to eventually exit. To close the door quietly behind them as they left without another word or a backwards glance. I needed him to be the one, and yet –

This promising new candidate, tall and broad like a footballer, drew all the expectant attention in the room. A quiet, perfunctory manner accompanied him as he settled onto the stool, and leaned one elbow against the polished surface in front of him. His private paperwork laid out before him, notations to himself and no other, concentrated his attention. I shifted on my chair, and brushed another pollutant from myself, a piece of lint from home perhaps, or work. I stopped in at this place near my house on my way home, painfully weary from talking, from coping, from driving forty minutes on the interstate congested with eighteen wheelers. To sit quietly felt like a relief, and yet –

“Harragh” I uttered for the second time, clearing the way for my statement. No, not a statement, a question. The question. Would he consent? Was he able to consent? Not otherwise engaged, promised to another, unable to commit? He wouldn’t turn until I spoke, I sensed that about him, stranger that he was to me.

“When I called - ” I began my inquiry speaking at his wide shoulders, still hunched over his work.

“When I called, I said to give me anyone, but - ” came my second stuttering, closely following the false beginning.

Did he appreciate my predicament? What had they told him before he came to meet me? What could it be about me that kept him engaged more deeply to the words on the page, than to the woman he was obliged to attend? Maybe my tired eyes betrayed my apparent youth, and he didn’t know how to begin. He was content to make me wait for his attention, that much was clear. Though by rights, he owed me. I was the woman who paid for his time, for his attention, for his care – or as much of it as he had to give.

In the instance before my third attempt to take control, my stammered interrogation, he stiffened and sat upright. The calm nonchalance that accompanied his entrance just seconds before, evaporated into the ether. His head dropped lower, as he dipped his head towards his shoulder in preparation to turn. Slow deliberation marked his actions as if in response to my unfinished query. My utterance was incomplete, my anxiety as yet unvoiced, though perhaps my vocal tone betrayed me. The stool swiveled under his weight as he swung his body in my direction. His bulk faced off against my one hundred and ten pound frame. I didn’t stand a chance under his scrutiny, his fury. Something akin to rage blossomed across his features as he locked his brown eyes with my blue ones. Chastened, I tried again.

“When I called to make the appointment, I told them to give me anyone, but – ” I sputtered for a third time.

“But what?” he boomed his demand.

His baritone filled the space, bounced off the drab painted walls and slammed into me with a force like a train speeding by at close range. I wanted to dash from my chair, our encounter barely began and our business incomplete. My inarticulation had offended, that much was evident to me. Our human brains are adept at filling in spaces. Our brains compensate for what our eyes don’t truly see, and extrapolate meaning from unheard syllables. Fear and assumption muddle themselves into a dangerous cocktail of misunderstanding.

“I need to know – are you going to stay?” I squeaked out, under his ferocious gaze.

He continued to scrutinize me as his feature recomposed themselves. Tranquility had regained its hold on him. Trouser clad knees were the first part of him to begin the return journey, the rest of his large frame following suit as he swiveled back to his paperwork. The bright white of his physician’s coat gleamed at me once again.

“We’ll deal with that later.” He replied in a curt tone.

I smoothed my skirt, relieved to have escaped his wrath that had stopped in its tracks, but which now hung in the air between us, reeking. It was settled, he had settled it in less than a heartbeat, and our relationship was cemented for years to come. An African American gynecologist practicing in our defiantly White suburb of Detroit had been unexpected. Exhausted from years of pursuing a diagnosis, and several more years of only partially successful surgery, I sought understanding and empathy. Fresh from five consecutive painful and invasive procedures, I required a trustworthy and reliable doctor. No more ‘new patient’ appointments, no more fitting my heels in the stirrups to display my private, painful anguish for roomfuls of residents to observe. One man who would touch me gently, care for me without fail, and never, ever, leave me.