Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Eight

My eyes go as wide as dinner plates, damn near spraining themselves as they bulge to capacity and beyond, my pupils dilating as though I just got dumped in a bottomless black hole.

It sure as fuck feels like it.

My left eye twitches involuntarily, but that’s the only motion either of my strained peepers are capable of, unable to blink as they continue to behold the impossible sight before me.

My hand juts out on autopilot in a stopping motion, a confused, panicked frown creasing my forehead.

“W-w-wait…wait, what are you doing?” I blurt incredulously, glaring at Frost as though he’s lost his mind because, at this point, I’m one hundred percent sure he has.

He arches his brow casually, not pausing for anything. “I’m sure it’s pretty obvious, Ramona,” he says, as though I’m a simpleton who just asked him the most ridiculous question on the planet. “I’m about to take a piss.” He doesn’t even look at me, his expression indifferent as he pulls down his sweats to reveal a pair of black boxers.

Both the sight and his words instantly spark a memory I haven’t recalled in a long time, with one particular moment sprinting to the forefront of my mind: Trixie and I were watching a raunchy comedy in her apartment not long after we first met. There was this hilarious scene that touched on the fact that, typically, it’s very hard—no pun intended—for men to go when they’re…well, hard.

But there’s nothing remotely hilarious about this situation.

Nothing at all.