Matteo

I’m relieved when she blinks blearily up at me. She pushes up from the bed. It takes a few attempts for her to sit up completely. If the wall weren’t behind her, I have no doubt she wouldn’t be able to stay up in the position.

“Who are you? Oh.” The words are barely a whisper.

Her eyes are dark chocolate. I feel them as heavy as a touch as they run over me. They widen at the sight of my white coat and the stethoscope around my neck.

I’ve never been able to leave the lesson of dressing professionally from my grandfather behind. I wear a suit every day and leave the jacket off once I begin seeing patients. Today, I’m wearing a dark blue button-down shirt, a light blue tie to go with my navy wool suit, and a blue and silver checked vest where my tie is tucked to stay out of my way.

Meeting those dark eyes head-on sends a frisson of electricity down my spine. For the first time since my patient died more than four months ago, I’m feeling something. Something I don’t understand.

The electricity has shocked every cell in my body to life from a long-dormant sleep that I had no idea they were in—or maybe it’s they are alive for the first time. Whatever it is, those cells need to be fed. A fierce hunger claws at me from deep inside, desperate to get out. They recognize she is the reason they’re awake. Everything in me longs to touch her, to taste her, to consume her.

This is nothing I’ve felt before. My libido—even before the loss of feeling—would embarrass most men. Sex was like my other appetite, it didn’t happen often. Once it was satisfied by a woman or my hand, I rarely thought of it again for another few weeks or even months.

She runs a hand over her face, breaking the connection. The loss of it is abrupt, and I immediately want it back. When her mouth opens only to close again, it’s clear her attempt to speak causes her pain. The thought of her in pain yanks me out of the chaos rioting within me and causes a tug to my chest. What the hell is that—any of what’s happening to me?

 A hand goes to her throat. Pain, she’s in pain. I need to fix it. Forcing it all down, I go into doctor mode of professional and polite. “Hi, I’m Matteo Castillo. I’m a doctor here at the clinic you came to. Your culture came back, and you have strep throat. I’d like to give you a penicillin shot. Are you allergic to penicillin?”

 Shaking her head. “No.” Is croaked out. 

Relieved, I nod. “Good. Is it okay if I give you a shot? I need to make sure you know it’s going to hurt. However, even if we weren’t running low on pills, I would want to administer a shot. It will help you feel better in only a day or so. The best place would be your hip, which should help with the pain—for some patients. If you don’t feel comfortable with that, I can write a prescription for an oral antibiotic.”

Some patients were afraid of needles, and when it came to the penicillin shot, it was understandable. The solution is thick, so a bigger gauge needle is necessary. I’ve found the pain was less if given on the hip—not the buttock the way some still gave it.

She considers the question.

“I’m sorry there’s no one else to administer the shot. Everyone has left for the day.”

Her eyes widen. “It’s not. Pain.” She shakes her head. Pointing to her throat, “I want a shot. No pills.”

“Ah, you were more worried about the pain of the shot than me being the one to give it to you.”

 She’s nodding before I finish.

 I make the decision—it’s not something I usually offer, but I hate the idea of the shot hurting her. “Are you allergic to lidocaine?”

Another shake of her head.

“Good. I’m going to add a little lidocaine to help with the pain then. I’ll be right back with the shot.”

Her eyes are on her daughter. “Is she okay?”

I nod. “She’s good, no fever. I’ll be right back.”

Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall back against the wall. “Okay.” Is nothing more than her lips forming the word.

Her eyes slide closed, and I hate it. I want to see her beautiful eyes again, to feel them on me. What the hell is the matter with me?