DIRTY DREAMS
I'm wearing the gown and nothing else – no underwear, as instructed – and the air conditioning hits my bare thighs and I want to be anywhere else on earth.
The door opens.
Dr. Reeves walks in and I forget every complaint I've ever had about gynecology.
He's young – mid-thirties, maybe. Tall. Dark hair, slightly wavy, pushed back from a face that has no business belonging to a medical professional. Sharp jaw, clean-shaven. Blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that make him look intellectual and devastating simultaneously. White lab coat over a fitted dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms – tanned, lightly veined, with long fingers that are currently holding my chart.