Gloves on.
The anaesthetist tells me to grab some gloves.
“What size do you take?
“Medium.”
“Really? You look like a small.”
He’s right, I’m a small but I can’t get them on when I’m nervous. Last week while entering a room containing a frightened and senile, old man I was struggling to get a pair of small-sized gloves on. Fingers spread upwards, savagely tugging on the latex in an angry manner that prompted him to ask me if I was going to beat him up. I told him I wasn’t. “Good, because even though there wouldn’t be any prints I’d remember your face.”
The anaesthetist trusts his own judgment and hands me small gloves. I can’t get them on. I’m embarrassed. The nurses are watching. He mutters something and disappears for a moment.
“Here,” he hands me some tissue paper, “this is a little tip for those who suffer with sweaty palms.”
I gaze at him gratefully and dry my hands.
“Next task for you: what’s the date?”, he asks.
“March 14th. Steak and Blowjob day.”
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distorte said:
I guess since I refused to participate in Valentine’s Day I have to forgo this.
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kitey posted this
