Beatriz sat on the examining table, desperately wanting a Cicero.
She wanted to feel uncomfortable, and one would, being topless in front of a stranger, but she didn’t, oddly. The surgeon was a young guy, she’s sure, but carries that aura of maturity, trustworthiness associated with medical professionals. He knew what he was doing, he’s not some pervert. Cute, wears glasses. People wouldn’t be so hesitant to go to the doctor/surgeon/dentist’s office if doctors/surgeons/dentists looked as nice and were as pleasant as he seems. Most of them do, though.
She’s cold, but trembles patiently as he scrutinizes and appraises her bust. She can feel warmth emitting from him, or at least imagines there is. The room is quiet, it’s just them. Maybe there should be a nurse or attendant with them, but she’s a big girl and he’s a professional. He knows what he’s doing.
She can hear his breathing, even and calm; he’s concentrating. He wants to be certain of his pen’s mark before he makes it. It almost seems like—dare it be thought—he doesn’t want to, but he’s a professional.
“Well…” He begins, (in an almost sigh?) “…the incision will start here…” the tip of the pen encircles her right areola, “camouflaged by the areola and then we move vertically from the nipple to the fold and then horizontally under the breast.” Pen moves according, she watches. He has large, soft-looking hands, tender like a lover’s. “You’ve have an anchor scar.” He caps and pockets the pen, eyes locked on hers. “But that’ll go away in a month or so with a daily application of vitamin E.” He reassures soothingly.
“How long will it take?”
“Not very. You can put your shirt back on now.”
She does while he takes a seat on a red, rolling, backless chair. He looks up at her with those gentle hands clasped together in his lap.
“Miss Batista, this is not my place and you’re more than welcome to shut me up when you please, but why do you want this reduction?”
She’s stuck for a few moments; she doesn’t know how to put what she feels into words, the awkward cheapness she associates with them. But did they really make a difference in that or was it the attitude she radiates?
“Well, uh, um, I think they make me…cheap.” Her eyes shift around, she hates that.
He never breaks his gaze, those inquiring morsels of soft, dark chocolate. She would usually feel uncomfortable being stared down, she wants to, but he seems so trusting.
There’s a slight pause in the room before he takes off his glasses and rubs his face. He replaces them.
“Day in, day out, beautiful women like yourself walk into my office and ask me to change parts of themselves that make them them and while examining you, I had the epiphany that I just can’t do it. I could, but I can’t and I won’t let you let me change you. I’m an artist, ok, a pretty damn good one and I would’ve been an artist if the pay met my lifestyle, but you’re asking me to slash Mona Lisa’s smile, give Venus De Milo arms and as an artist, I can’t. This may sound like some line, but you’re a very beautiful woman, even with your few imperfections, you’re perfect. It’s not my place to alter a heavenly creature. I’m convinced that if I do, I’ll burn in hell.”
He stands, hovering his hands over her breasts, slightly cupped, eyes still on hers.
“Girls come in here and beg desperately that I give them breasts like yours. Do you know how dangerous silicone is? It’s rough stuff and they do it for men, these naïve girls. Men are just dumb beasts.” He lowers his hands to his sides. “Do you know how addictive plastic surgery becomes for some people? How impulsive it becomes for them? They go in to get one thing fixed, thinking it’ll be enough, and they’re satisfied for awhile, but then there’s something else wrong and then, they get that fixed, and then it just goes on and on until they’re these grotesque pieces of melted wax.” His forefinger trails down her cheek. “I can’t let that ravage this face, I’ll burn in hell.”
He turns away, taking warmth with him, wheeling the chair off to the side, picking up his clipboard.
“Now, ultimately, what ever you choose to do is your business, of course, but you’re a very beautiful woman, who any man should be happy to have as his, and it’s a shame you don’t know that.” Pause, he looks down momentarily, then up again. “You’re free to leave and I hope you don’t make an appointment with my receptionist.”
He goes to exit, but she stops him.
“Dr. Scagnetti?”
He turns back as she hops down from the table, walking toward him.
“I’ll like to have dinner with you tonight if you’re free.” She can’t believe what she’s doing.
He smiles a little, a small gift. That prompts her smile.
She loves this man.
“I’d like that as well.”
