I think the last time I saw The Pusher was nearly five years ago. I've been making do with his henchmen ever since. But today's appointment was important, so he made the time to see me himself, even though I arrived 45 minutes late.
Nothing's changed about the routine. Undress from the waist up, don the ridiculously small gown (opening in the front, please), wait, remove the aforementioned scrap of cloth, submit to a manual bilateral palpation (warm hands good, cold hands bad), and... we're done. The small talk's better ("tell me about the tattoo"), but that's incidental.
In May, I will have completed my five-year course of Tamoxifen; I have enough pills to get me there. So, it turns out this was our last date. In fact, he told me he never wants to see me again. Breaking up has never been so easy to do!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
"It's not you, it's me."
ReplyDeleteWait. It IS you! SO happy you broke up!!!