Doctor's visit

Alex's POV

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple." - Oscar Wilde

Droplets cascaded from my wet hair, splattering onto the bathroom floor like rogue tears. I cinched the white bandana around my head, a futile attempt to contain not just the dampness, but the chaos swirling within. Get it together, Alex. I pulled on crisp white trousers over the black football tee, the oversized fabric a shield against the vulnerability that threatened to engulf me.

Downstairs, the microwave hummed, a domestic ding that usually brought comfort now echoed with a hollow, unsettling resonance. Hunter's plate sat warming inside, a symbol of the life I was desperately trying to mold myself into.

Outside, the city air felt sharp, demanding. I flagged a taxi, the knot in my stomach tightening with each rotation of the tires. St. Angel's loomed ahead, a sterile monolith promising answers I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. Psychologist first, then gynecologist. Get it over with.

Dr. Davis's handshake felt cold, clinical. "Good morning, Mrs. Martinez. Congratulations on your wedding."

His words were a polite greeting, but they landed like a lead weight. "I... I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here." My voice wavered, betraying the carefully constructed facade of composure.

"Is everything alright? Did you relapse?" Concern etched lines around his eyes.

Relapse. The word stung. Before Hunter, my mind had been a battlefield. Scars, both visible and invisible, marked a past I fought so hard to escape. Hunter had been my lifeline, the anchor that grounded me amidst the storm. My mother, though she adored him, had always whispered doubts, questioning the authenticity of my love.

"Everything is fine," I insisted, forcing a smile. "But I'm worried I might jeopardize my marriage."

"Why do you feel that way?"

I took a shaky breath. "Yesterday... with Hunter... I didn't feel anything. I'm worried it will ruin everything."

"Typically," Dr. Davis began, choosing his words with practiced care, "a woman's body responds to intimacy based on her sexual orientation. If you're straight, you will respond with a man, but not necessarily a woman-"

"Thanks for your insight, but I don't think I'm gay". I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, my defensive wall slamming into place.

Down the hall, the gynecologist's office felt strangely welcoming. "Good morning, Mrs. Martinez!" Her cheerful voice was a brief reprieve.

"Good morning. I need to know...is it possible for someone to not respond during sex?" The question hung in the air, raw and exposed.

"Yes, it is possible, and there are two main reasons." She paused, her professional demeanor softening. "It can be related to her sexual orientation... or her preferred sexual style."

Sexual style. A glimmer of hope flickered. Maybe it wasn't me. Maybe it was just... that.

Lost in this desperate rationalization, I stumbled out of the office and collided with someone in the crowded hallway. A woman. Taller than me, with eyes that held an unexpected intensity. Embarrassed, I averted my gaze. "I'm so sorry," I mumbled.

"It's fine. Are you okay?" Her voice was soft, but clear, laced with genuine concern.

"I'm fine, thanks. Bye." I hurried away, but not before I saw the spark of curiosity dancing in her eyes.

Outside, the cool air did little to quell the turmoil within. The city rushed around me, oblivious to the earthquake rumbling beneath my carefully constructed façade. I was standing on the edge of something, a precipice overlooking an unknown landscape. Was this the end of everything I thought I knew... or a terrifying, exhilarating new beginning?