and live chickens in payment. He was like a modern Dr. Welby - only instead of a graying man with a fatherly smile, he had warm green eyes and tightly curled honey blonde hair. He kept a small office in the Multnomah Village neighborhood, with only a part-time nurse. “Sure, I could work myself into the ground and make four hundred thousand dollars a year, but for what?” he had told Claire once. “This way I get to make a decent living, be my own boss, and still have time to go hiking.”
Only after she had hung up the phone did Claire realize she was still wearing what she had worn to bed - nothing.
Pulling herself upright, Claire began to hop slowly toward her closet. Hopping was an even more ridiculous mode of transportation than she had imagined. She was able to advance only a few inches with each hop, and every time she landed it sent a thrill of pain through her dangling injured ankle. Normally, she enjoyed the long narrow expanse of her bedroom - it ran the full width of the house - but now it seemed endless. And when had her room gotten to be such a mess? She had to maneuver around a pair of Birkenstocks, a mystery novel she had started a few days ago, and a pile of clothes she had been meaning to take down to the basement laundry room.
By the time she made it to her closet, Claire was exhausted. Learning against the door frame, she pulled a black cotton-knit dress from the hanger. It was the dress version of a T-shirt, with long sleeves and a hem that ended just above her ankles. Her dresser - and underwear drawer - was about a hundred hops away. Then Claire imagined Dr. Gregory kneeling before her, assessing her ankle, and then noticing he had a clear shot of her crotch. Maybe she could skip the bra, but panties were a must. She had just finished struggling into a pair of cotton panties when the doorbell rang.
Claire hopped over to the window and pulled aside the curtain. There was Dr. Gregory’s little red Mazda Miata parked in the driveway, behind Claire’s infinitely less eye-catching ten-year-old tan Mazda 323 econo-box. And there was Dr. Gregory himself, holding a black doctor’s bag. He waved up at her.
“Come on in!” Claire shouted after she had opened the window.
He motioned toward the door. “The door’s locked.”
Claire made a face. How long would it take her to hop down the stairs? “This may take a minute.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Don’t you have a key hidden under the welcome mat or anything?”
She shook her head. And then remembered the backpack that was still looped over the bedpost. “Wait - I forgot. I do have a key up here.”
He fumbled the ring when she tossed it down, then recovered. “I’ll be up in just a second.”
When she heard Dr. Gregory’s footsteps on the stairs, Claire called out, “I’m in here.” He opened the door, and she saw that his hair was still a little damp in back from his shower. Claire ran into Dr. Gregory outside his office all the time - lifting weights next to her at the MJCC, getting a latte from Village Coffee, petting the resident black cat at Annie Bloom’s Books - but still, it felt oddly intimate to have him in her bedroom. He was dressed in an expensive outdoorsy way that would never actually work in the real outdoors. His Hilfiger jeans were too snug, and his moss-green long-sleeved polo shirt was made of pima cotton too light to keep out even a faint breeze.
“Let’s have a look, then.” He knelt at her feet, and Claire was glad she had remembered to put on panties. His cool fingers stroked her ankle and calf as he talked to her, reinforcing the oddly personal nature of his profession. On Claire’s last birthday, Charlie had given her a gift certificate for a massage. It had been the same sort of thing, professional hands paid to touch in places and ways that you would normally slap a stranger for.
“I thought of the best heteronym yet,” she said, as he flexed her foot.
His eyes were on her
Only after she had hung up the phone did Claire realize she was still wearing what she had worn to bed - nothing.
Pulling herself upright, Claire began to hop slowly toward her closet. Hopping was an even more ridiculous mode of transportation than she had imagined. She was able to advance only a few inches with each hop, and every time she landed it sent a thrill of pain through her dangling injured ankle. Normally, she enjoyed the long narrow expanse of her bedroom - it ran the full width of the house - but now it seemed endless. And when had her room gotten to be such a mess? She had to maneuver around a pair of Birkenstocks, a mystery novel she had started a few days ago, and a pile of clothes she had been meaning to take down to the basement laundry room.
By the time she made it to her closet, Claire was exhausted. Learning against the door frame, she pulled a black cotton-knit dress from the hanger. It was the dress version of a T-shirt, with long sleeves and a hem that ended just above her ankles. Her dresser - and underwear drawer - was about a hundred hops away. Then Claire imagined Dr. Gregory kneeling before her, assessing her ankle, and then noticing he had a clear shot of her crotch. Maybe she could skip the bra, but panties were a must. She had just finished struggling into a pair of cotton panties when the doorbell rang.
Claire hopped over to the window and pulled aside the curtain. There was Dr. Gregory’s little red Mazda Miata parked in the driveway, behind Claire’s infinitely less eye-catching ten-year-old tan Mazda 323 econo-box. And there was Dr. Gregory himself, holding a black doctor’s bag. He waved up at her.
“Come on in!” Claire shouted after she had opened the window.
He motioned toward the door. “The door’s locked.”
Claire made a face. How long would it take her to hop down the stairs? “This may take a minute.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Don’t you have a key hidden under the welcome mat or anything?”
She shook her head. And then remembered the backpack that was still looped over the bedpost. “Wait - I forgot. I do have a key up here.”
He fumbled the ring when she tossed it down, then recovered. “I’ll be up in just a second.”
When she heard Dr. Gregory’s footsteps on the stairs, Claire called out, “I’m in here.” He opened the door, and she saw that his hair was still a little damp in back from his shower. Claire ran into Dr. Gregory outside his office all the time - lifting weights next to her at the MJCC, getting a latte from Village Coffee, petting the resident black cat at Annie Bloom’s Books - but still, it felt oddly intimate to have him in her bedroom. He was dressed in an expensive outdoorsy way that would never actually work in the real outdoors. His Hilfiger jeans were too snug, and his moss-green long-sleeved polo shirt was made of pima cotton too light to keep out even a faint breeze.
“Let’s have a look, then.” He knelt at her feet, and Claire was glad she had remembered to put on panties. His cool fingers stroked her ankle and calf as he talked to her, reinforcing the oddly personal nature of his profession. On Claire’s last birthday, Charlie had given her a gift certificate for a massage. It had been the same sort of thing, professional hands paid to touch in places and ways that you would normally slap a stranger for.
“I thought of the best heteronym yet,” she said, as he flexed her foot.
His eyes were on her
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