I asked for ibuprofen at the gynecologist the other day, and the medical assistant paused and then told me she'd either be back with some or the doc herself would give me some.
Besides his charm, he was sweet, funny, and actually quite respectful of women. “Maybe he’s bi,” I wondered, but that shouldn’t have mattered, regardless, because most damning of all, he had a girlfriend. A live-in girlfriend.
He'd worked at this restaurant for under three months when I tripped on the top step of a nail salon, fell down a flight of rickety concrete steps, and shattered my left leg.
