Kiss With A Fist

"... Eight years." He sounds deeply annoyed and uncomfortable.

 

"Dentist?"

 

"Eight. Years."

 

"Known health concerns, up to and including frequent headaches, frequent urination, or chronic fatigue."

 

Glaring. "I'm fine."

 

"Past health concerns."

 

"Chronic or acute."

 

"Acute, then chronic."

 

"... Minor pneumonia. Shrapnel injury. MRSA. Strep throat. Broken wrist."

"Nothing chronic."

 

She nods. "Any family history of cancer, mental illness, etc?"

 

He flinches. "Breast cancer. Bone cancer. Brain tumor. Heart attack. Early-onset dementia."

 

A slow nod. "Shoe size?"

 

"... Forty-two."

 

"Pant and shirt sizes?"

 

He answers quietly, obviously... distressed, twitching as if stung by an invisible mosquito. Like he doesn't like being known like this.

 

She continues, the questions insistent, invasive, digging deep into who he is and aspects of his life he doesn't want to share.

 

He answers as shortly as he thinks she'll allow, fists clenched. Stop it. Stop.

 

At length, her pen clicks, with a strange finality, and she looks up. "how you have managed to survive this long without overhead management, I fail to understand. No matter, we'll be fixing that."

 

His palms are bleeding from the bite of nails into flesh. "I'm fine," he growls.

 

"Tomorrow, you will be meeting me in the entryway at 08:00 hours sharp. We will be taking you for a thorough checkup, unless you'd prefer I handle that myself, here and now, Adler."