problems with impotence while a sexy stud sits three feet away.
Just before lunch, I finished up a stack of letters to referring physicians and set out to deliver them to the various offices in the building. I could have sent them out with the next batch of interoffice mail, but delivering them in person was one of the few legitimate excuses I had for escaping my cubbyhole.
The last of my letters went to the OB-GYN office on the second floor. Dozens of fruitful women in designer maternity wear kept three physicians and twice as many nurses and techs busy. I could never look at the “wall of fame” beside the reception desk, with its photos of smiling moms and dads with their newborns, without feeling a pang of sadness. I kept telling myself I still had plenty of time to have kids, but there was that pesky matter of needing someone to be the father. I wasn’t crazy about diving back into the whole relationship thing any time soon.
“Thanks, Phoebe,” the receptionist, Beverly, said when I handed her my letters. “I think I’ve got some for you, too.”
While Beverly went in search of the letters, I turned my back on the family photos and surveyed the waiting room. A trio of women in various stages of pregnancy sat reading copies of American Baby and Modern Maternity. The nurse came to the door and beckoned one woman and she levered herself out of the chair and waddled toward the exam room. There was something familiar about her long blond hair, her glowing skin….
I clutched the edge of the reception desk, overcome by the urge to scream or puke, I wasn’t sure which. The lovely Madonna waddling away from me was none other than Just-a-waitress Tami, the future Mrs. Steven Frame.
“Here are those letters. Thanks for waiting.” Beverly shoved a stack of envelopes toward me. She frowned. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m…fine,” I lied. In any case, there was no medical cure for what ailed me.
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