by Greta Ryan
It’s official: I am the horniest person in Melbourne.
Dr Fischer is at the bottom of my bed, examining my chart. My vagina is stand-up paddle boarding. He is all curated stubble and salt and pepper curls. He has a stern, authoritative way of delivering updates on my health. I want him to talk to me that way while he tempts a hand up the inside of my thigh. I don’t care if he’s telling me the results of my x-ray. I want to hear that voice. All. The. Time.
‘We’ll continue with the IV antibiotics and steroids until we see improvement in your chest x-rays,’ he says.
‘Okay.’ Keep me here forever. Lock me in your sex dungeon and throw away the key.
‘And I’ll keep you on oxygen for today. I’ll come and check on you tonight.’
‘No worries.’ Come and check on me every fifteen minutes, please.
‘Can I just have a listen to your chest before I go?’
Oh shit, I’m wearing my beige bra that has grey patches under the arms. Why didn’t I pack my sex-kitten bras? I guess because an ambulance was on its way, and fucking people wasn’t at the forefront of my mind.
‘Of course.’ I lift up my hospital gown and hope I’m not losing all my chances. He presses the cold base of his stethoscope around my chest and upper back. My nipples protrude. I wonder if he notices. My eyes flick towards his fly to see if he has. Nothing is straining, begging to be set free.
‘Hmmm…still not good. I’ll see you tonight and remember – rest.’
I’m somehow surprised he’s not bowled over by hotness, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in my bathroom mirror, and I am reminded that I look like something dredged up from the morgue.
I am supposed to be lying in this hospital bed recovering from death renting all the space in my lungs. This is not the time to imagine Dr Fisher pressing me up against the sterile wall near the door, doing me from behind.
He’d leave on his crisp white lab coat, of course, urgh so hot.
I’d take off my hospital gown, because that is so not hot.
I bet he’d be really good at it. Sex. You know when you can just tell? A cunnilingus king – that stubble would just add to the whole experience.
That’s what I need in my life. More orgasms. And Dr Fisher was brought into my life for that very reason. Oh, and to make sure I don’t die.
A nurse comes into my room to check my vitals. She gives the impression that she is only a few weeks’ from retirement and she is counting the seconds. She wraps the blood pressure band around my arm with such determination my arm turns a shade of indigo. I wonder if she and Dr Fisher talk in the break room. If she, too, wants to practise naked yoga with him? Does she know he’s mine?
After dinner, I watch SBS Food because I forgot to bring my laptop. I clearly forgot to bring the important things – laptop, sexy underwear, makeup that would make me look less dead. I don’t mind SBS Food though, out of all the free to air channels. I enjoy cooking, and watching cooking shows has always been comforting. Almost calming. Silvia Colloca is cooking Spaghetti alla Nerano, a pasta dish with zucchinis.
Dr Fisher knocks on the door frame, then steps in like he would be comfortable in any room.. From my bed I get wafts of orange peel, mixed with an ocean dip. He looks at the TV, then back to me.
‘Are you much of a cook?’ he asks.
‘When I’m not confined to a hospital bed.’
He laughs. I made him laugh.
My stomach flips. ‘What about yourself?’
‘It’s hard with the hours I work. I tend to meal-prep once a week.’ Are we having an actual non ‘I’m sick’ conversation? ‘I’d like to get more into it.’
‘What’s your go-to meal?’
‘Mushroom risotto.’
‘Mushrooms are my favourite vegetable!’ Um…were we meant to be or what!?
He chuckles. ‘Yeah, umami is my thing.’
Oh my god, he knows words like umami.
‘Anyway, let’s have a listen to your chest.’
I lift my gown and let him do his thing. Once again, my nipples present themselves. I check his fly for any sign of life. Nothing. Am I that grotesque? I like to cook: surely that would have elicited a tiny swing of interest.
‘Ok, that’s sounding a lot better than this morning. I’m taking you off oxygen.’
‘Great.’
‘You should be back in your kitchen in no time.’
‘Thanks, Dr Fischer.’
‘Rest up, Daisy.’
Except – I don’t want to be back home in no time. I want to be here. With Dr Fisher, examining me with his stethoscope and ordering me around. Damn you, body! Why do you have to go and get better on me?
An orderly came to my room this morning and took me for another x-ray. He was cute, but he was no Dr Fischer. That man makes my undies vaporise.
I’ve decided I’m not very good at being in hospital, unless it’s the hospital from Grey’s Anatomy and I, too, were one of the doctors. Then I could bang the other hot doctors in the supply room.
I’ve been here for a week now and all I can think about is Dr Fisher, and how forbidden the whole thing is. How would it actually work? I am his patient. It is wrong. Why does that make me melt and send chills all over at the same time? I need to get my head together.
Oh god, here he is.
‘Good news Daisy, your chest x-rays came back clear.’ The baritone beauty delivers news that is not at all good. ‘You can go home.’
‘When?’ My voice cracks.
‘Today, if someone can pick you up.’ A crinkly-eyed smile spreads across his face. I dissolve into the mattress.
I know Brie is at home, binge-watching Indian Matchmaking. But if I tell him my sister can come get me, I have to leave. Today. No more Dr Fischer perve-fest.
‘Everyone I know is busy.’ The words meld together.
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Ok. But organise something for tomorrow. There really isn’t any reason for you to be here anymore.’
Yes, there is.
Despite my protests, my sister insists on picking me up the next morning. After my morning shower, I notice the colour in my cheeks has transitioned from grey and sallow to a subtle rose. I dress in the clothes I was admitted in − a knitted burgundy dress, tights, and knee-high boots. No more flapping hospital gown. I feel like me again. I hope he sees me like this. Not the ghost in an electric bed.
Brie bounds in. She grabs my bags and forgets to say hello.
‘C’mon, hurry up, I’m parked in a No Standing spot.’ She’s standing in the doorway, one foot in the hall.
‘Can’t we just wait a second?’
‘For what? Don’t you want to get out of this godforsaken place?’
‘Just give me a minute.’
‘Oh my god. Who is it this time? The radiographer? Anurse who took your blood?’
‘Ah, no. You’re being ridiculous.’
‘You’re not staying here because you have a sudden interest in studying medicine.’
‘I could be.’
Dr Fischer strolls past my door, eating a granny smith apple. I bolt past my sister, shoving her into the doorframe.
‘Dr Fisher.’
He finishes chewing his bite. I want to morph into a granny smith apple and have Dr Fisher’s lips and teeth all over my flesh.
‘Daisy, I’m happy to hear you’re going home today.’
Ugh, why?
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘You’ve been a delight to look after, I wish you all the best.’ He holds out a sanitised hand and I waste no time in placing mine in the gaps that were created for my fingers. A rush of pulsating heat floods through my arms, down my torso, to my thighs. I don’t want him to let go. Not now. Not ever.
‘Thank you.’ I somehow manage to get it out.
He pulls his hand out from my grip. ‘Bye,’ he says.
‘Bye.’
He is already walking down the corridor, resuming his apple-chewing.
‘You are so transparent,’ Brie says.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say.
‘Your doctor? What do you think is going to happen?’
‘Just leave it, will you?’
‘I’m being realistic.’ Brie adjusts the bags in her arms. ‘Don’t they take some sort of oath?’
I pick up my final bag of hurriedly-packed clothes.
‘This conversation is over,’ I say, and I follow her out the door.
‘Fine, but you better not contact him.’
Home is quiet like underwater.
There are no beeping machines, or alarms calling for nurses. No chatter in the hallways.
I wasn’t thinking about contacting Dr Fischer until Brie gave me the idea. I mean, what do I have to lose?
I found him on Instagram after scrolling through about two-hundred Andrew Fischers. I agonise over what to write, and three hours later, I settle on Risotto?
I wake up and scramble for my phone, knocking books and earrings from my bedside table. I open Instagram and head straight for my DMs. It’s there, screaming at me. A mixture of anticipation and uncertainty: Seen.
Greta is studying the Associate Degree in Professional Writing and Editing at RMIT. She writes contemporary fiction that would be shelved under comedy and romcoms. She has a serious crush on Louis Theroux, is a die-hard Swiftie and loves Amanda Bynes’s movies.
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