power, less "I heard a rumor, is it true?" he's leaning over, towards me, elbows resting on his knees, looking at me, willing me, challenging me, taunting me to look at him.
"What's that?" I say, feigning distraction, heart pounding, looking down at my laptop, not looking up, not looking at him, pretending to be reading up on our first morning patient, instead I am writing a desperate email to Andy that says jesus fucking christ, it's not even 8:00am in the morning on Monday and I'm already getting sexually harassed.
"I heard a rumor and I want to know if it's true, is it? Is it true?"
I sigh. Give in. Look up.
"What's the rumor?" forcing a natural tone, forcing normalcy. I'm not intimidated. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm not intimidated. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm not powerless. I'm not intimidated. I'm not uncomfortable.
"That you like me. Is it true? Do you like me?" He leans in, folds his hands together, his gold wedding band catches a bright, brief flash of light off the lampshade. His mottled sky blue tie hangs limp between us. I cringe, then smile, weakly, worriedly, forcing a hard harsh laugh. I hold up both my hands, my wedding band on my left, my engagement ring on my right, a physical gesture meant to underscore my legal lack of singleness. It occurs me to later, only after the fact, that is a gesture that looks a lot like surrender.
"I'm married". My tone is flat, quickly dismissive, defensive. What. The. Fuck. In a rush I feel at once ashamed and shameful, as if I am the one crossing the line, as if I am the one who made this.
"And no, I don't like you. Sorry. I mean, I think you're a nice guy" I rush to quick to interject bullshit my brain hisses, you fucking idiot, stop apologizing "but I do not" I am stammering now "I don't like you. Sorry".
_______________________________________
"Did I make you feel uncomfortable?" he says, closing the door to his office. I am eating his food. Shamed and ashamed to have accepted his offer, starving and shaking, hypoglycemic and hyperventilating, I wonder briefly, what does it say about me that I'm eating his crackers? That I accepted them? Will anyone understand that it was because I just wanted to pretend, needed to pretend, have to pretend that nothing is wrong, it's okay it's okay it's okay it's okay, I'm not powerless, I'm not intimidated, I'm not uncomfortable, this isn't happening, I am okay. It's okay.
"No, no, no. It's fine. I'm fine. So what do you want to do with this guy? Should we send his urine out for cytology? Does it need a urology referral? I think he should have a cystoscopy. Let's order him a cystoscopy, how do I do that? Show me how to do that, is there a form or something?"
"Because it's okay, you know, if you like me. I wouldn't mind. I like you. I wouldn't mind if you like me". He leans in, pushes his chair away from his desk towards mine, my back against the wall, trapped, not powerless, not intimidated, okay okay okay.
"Jesus" I push out of the chair, "get over it" I'm trying to make it a joke, trying to make it okay, trying to make it stop, trying to make it go away "I don't like you. Really" I feel like I'm defending myself I feel like I made this I feel like I'm wrong.
_______________________________________________
The day goes by like a small eternity. I force professionalism. I am okay. I am not intimidated. It's fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine. He behaves like a sixteen year old boy, writing notes behind my back, showing them to patients.
She's sooooooooo serious one of them says. I find it while leafing through the papers in the exam room, looking for the list of medications.
"What?" I say, genuinely confused.
"Oh," he laughs, "I was telling them how you don't know how to take a joke. That you don't know that I'm just joking with you. That you take me too seriously when I'm only joking around, you know."
"Oh," I say. And then, to my patient, on the table, half dressed and worried about his prostate, "are you still taking the Verapamil?" because I have to force normalcy, because it has to be okay.
_________________________________________________
"I hope I don't make you uncomfortable. Do I make you uncomfortable? You can tell me. You can trust me. I won't tell anyone if you like me. I like you too". He has just hung up the phone with his wife, asked about his children, the Olympics, the dog.
"I'm fine, it's fine. Do I need to call cardiology about scheduling this patient's echo? Should I email her doctor?"
"You did a great job with her you know," he moves in, staring, glaring, searing, "you're really good with patients. They really like you. I like you too, but you don't like me". He screws up his face in, a mock pout. If I had eaten more of them I would have thrown up his crackers.
I sigh. I've tried making jokes and making light of it. I've tried willing it to be gone, ignoring it, avoiding it, refusing to acknowledge it. I've tried asking the nurses which one of you turkeys told him I like him, I don't care who started it because I'm here to end it.
None of us told him that, they say. And I believe them.
