Private Lessons From A Doctor

Mabel

Ethan’s hands slid around my waist from behind, his touch a familiar anchor. His breath was a slow, warm sigh against the sensitive curve of my neck, carrying the scent of his cologne—the one I’d bought for our anniversary—wrapping around me like a fragile, beautiful memory.

My heart ached with the desire to respond, but my body felt suspended, frozen just beyond his reach. When his lips gently lingered along the line of my shoulder, I closed my eyes, willing myself to relax. I tried to conjure the heat, the pulse, the blinding spark that used to make everything else fade. But all I felt was the crushing weight of expectation pressing against my skin, suffocating the last hint of passion.

He shifted, a slow impatience entering his movements. His hands tightened, guiding me closer; his breath deepened, a soft, heavy request. “Mabel…” he murmured my name, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

I willed myself to match his rhythm, to find some glorious friction in the familiarity of his touch, but my body remained still—a reluctant vessel, unresponsive and cold. I could feel his desire, but I couldn't reciprocate. I gritted my teeth, telling myself, "Relax, Mabel, relax..."

Then, just as the intimate silence became unbearable, he exhaled sharply and pulled away. The sudden withdrawal was like a physical sting.

The mattress dipped as he rolled onto his back. Sheets rustled, the music stopped. The air between us cooled instantly, carrying the metallic edge of failure.

A moment later, the mattress shifted again—the soft thud of his feet hitting the floor. He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. I watched the muscles in his back tense and release as he raked a hand through his hair, the gesture one of profound frustration. "Damn it..." he muttered under his breath, his voice low and suppressed.

He stood and walked into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The cleansing rush of running water filled the quiet, followed by steam that began to curl through the doorway like a visible, silent accusation against the stillness of the room.

I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. The soft, rhythmic hum of the shower was steady, almost cruelly intimate, filling the space he’d just vacated.

In the reflection of the mirror across the room, I saw myself: tousled hair, cheeks flushed not with desire but embarrassment, eyes wide and lost. My body looked foreign to me—like something I’d been given but never truly learned how to awaken it.

The shower turned off. Ethan stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, his face a smooth, unreadable mask. He didn’t glance my way as he passed.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up, his thumb lingered a little too long on the screen, a faint, fleeting smirk—sharp as glass—tugging at the corner of his mouth before he set it face-down.

My chest tightened, a cold dread pooling there.

He threw on a shirt, his movements brisk and impersonal. The faint scent of soap clung to him, sharp and clean, wiping away the memory of his cologne. He didn’t say anything. The silence was heavier than any words, a tangible barrier between us.

A part of me wanted desperately to reach for him, to shatter the quiet, to apologize for this invisible failure I couldn’t define. But another part of me, smaller, quieter, and braver, stayed absolutely still. Because I was tired of being the only one reaching.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I didn’t follow.

Later, when the apartment felt too large and hollow, I picked up my phone and chatted with Lydia. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but the words were a tangle in my throat.

"It happened again. I failed again." I finally clicked send on that single, edited line.

The reply came almost instantly—three dots, then a message that made me frown. "You should see someone about this. A doctor, maybe?"

A doctor… for being broken.

I dropped the phone onto the couch beside me and sank back, wrapping the blanket tighter. The TV flickered silently, casting faint, meaningless shadows across the room.

I’d done everything right, hadn’t I? I tried new things, different times, softer lighting, even wine. None of it changed anything. Every time his hands found me, my mind floated away—out of reach.

When I finally stood, the night air that came through the half-open window made me shiver. I gathered the clothes scattered on the floor, folding them mechanically.

That’s when I saw it—a shirt I didn’t recognize beneath the pile.

I picked it up, bringing it close to my face before I could stop myself. The faint scent of his familiar cologne hit first, then something else beneath it—a sweet, floral, almost sickly expensive perfume.

A faint red curve stained the collar. Lipstick.

Not mine.

The realization didn’t hit like an explosion. It was slower, more devastating—like sinking into icy water and accepting the chill.

I stared at the mark, my mind scrambling for a defense. Maybe from a hug. Maybe a stranger brushed past. Maybe—

No.

I knew better.

My stomach twisted. The room blurred, the walls closing in. I sat on the edge of the bed, the shirt clutched in my hands, and tried to breathe past the suffocating tightness in my chest.

The phone buzzed again. Another message from Lydia. "Are you there? I heard there’s a new doctor in town. Just go talk to him. He’s good. Everyone says so."

The message blurred as tears gathered in my eyes. A doctor. A stranger. A chance to fix what I didn’t even understand, while my whole world was crumbling.

The city outside hummed softly; cars passing, laughter spilling from some late-night bar, the world going on without me.

I pressed the shirt to my chest, the lipstick stain hidden in my palm.

Somewhere deep inside, something shifted. Not anger… not yet. Just the quiet, resolute knowledge that whatever I had with Ethan was slipping away, and perhaps it was time to stop pretending I could hold it together.

I stood in the hallway, the shirt still clutched in my hand, my reflection a ghost in the mirror. My pulse hammered beneath my skin. For a moment, I imagined throwing the shirt at him, demanding answers, forcing him to see the brutal truth of what he’d done.

But when the door opened and steam spilled out, all the words I’d imagined burned away to ash.

He walked past me, water dripping from his hair, a towel slung low around his waist. He didn't meet my eyes. Didn't notice the shirt. Didn't notice me.

I watched him walk away and realized—maybe he never truly did.

That night, long after he’d fallen asleep, I sat on the balcony wrapped in a blanket, phone in hand. Lydia’s messages blinked up at me, glowing against the darkness. "Dr. Adrian Cole… Private practice… New in town. You’ll thank me later.”

I saved the number without meaning to. Then I stared out at the indifferent city lights until my vision blurred.

When the phone buzzed one last time, I reached for it lazily.

A new message appeared on the screen—from Lydia again. “He’s different, Mabel. Trust me.”

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