“I think I’m in love.”
Bob seemed completely serious, sitting across from me at the coffee shop where most of our discussions take place.
“What are you talking about?”
Bob took a moment to stare off into the distance. “I mean…I’m in love.”
I was used to this type of thing from Bob. I’d known him for years and grown accustomed, and somewhat annoyed, by his ruminations on the nature of love, especially when it concerned him. Despite all that ruminating, however, Bob had yet to master the art, and I was confident this current case of infatuation would turn out no better than the ones that came before.
“And, this is with a girl?” To the best of my knowledge, Bob had never been intimate with a man, but I was already a little bored and felt the need to amuse myself.
Bob abandoned the horizon and brought his attention back to me. “Very funny. Yes, a girl. I met her yesterday.”
“Yesterday? Didn’t you have a doctor’s appointment yesterday?” It dawned on me I knew way too much about Bob’s schedule.
“Yes. That’s where I met her.”
Before I continue, some background is in order. Bob went to the doctor out of a concern that his right testicle had grown demonstrably larger than his left testicle. Despite his fear, Bob allowed the situation to languish over time, hoping the testicle would shrink on its own, without the intervention of a medical professional. The shrinking, however, did not occur and Bob, fearing cancer and the danger of accidentally crushing part of his manhood if he sat down too fast, finally decided to seek professional assistance. (Note: I did not ask for proof of the size differential and none was offered.)
“So who are we talking about here? The doctor? Did you fall in love with the doctor?”
“My doctor is a man and, before you make another joke, the answer is no. I didn’t fall in love with the doctor.” Bob again lifted his gaze to the horizon, as if contemplating what life could be like with his new love.
“Patient? Did you meet someone in the waiting room? Nurse, maybe? I have to say, it would make sense if it was a nurse. You’re gonna need someone to take care of you as you hurtle through middle age, you know, toward the end of your time on this planet.”
Bob was annoyed. I’d interrupted his happy thoughts with jokes. “Yes, a nurse, if you must know. She happened to be the ultrasound nurse, or technician, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that she made me feel really good, better than I’ve felt in years.”
I was skeptical, and not because I was a little jealous. Not completely, anyway. Like Bob, I had yet to figure out love’s secret formula, and was no more successful than he, so it was natural I might find his puppy love a tad irritating. But I had been down this path with him before, and it always reached the same dead end.
“So, what’s her name?”
It took a second for Bob to answer. “I don’t know.”
“But you’re in love with her.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know her name.”
“No, not exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly?’” I was frustrated with my friend but understood I couldn’t rush him.
“I mean, I don’t remember her name. I knew it yesterday.”
I realized I’d allowed Bob to lead me down a blind alley and decided to change tactics.
“So, you say she made you feel good? How so?”
Trigger Alert: The following may invoke undesireable images of a naked Bob.
Now, I won’t bore you with the sordid details, but they involve ten or fifteen minutes of Bob lying in a darkened room with an exposed scrotum, warm lubricating gel, an ultrasound wand, and an experienced nurse/technician and, the way Bob described it, I got the impression he fell in love right around minute eight.
“She was wonderful.” Bob was the picture of serenity, sitting behind his half full cup of coffee, shoulders relaxed, hands laying peacefully in his lap. “I just don’t know how to go about asking her out on a date.”
I narrowly avoided making a joke about Happy Endings. “How do you know she’s not married?”
“Oh, trust me. It was dark in the room, but I would have noticed if she was wearing a wedding ring.” He sounded so self-satisfied. I couldn’t stand it.
“Well, you know, Bob, she’s a nurse.”
“So what?”
“Well, maybe she takes her ring off at work? I mean, nurses put their hands on some pretty gross stuff, not the least of which is your man-sack. Maybe she doesn’t want to violate the sanctity of her marriage by having her wedding ring touch your junk or, for that matter, the junk of the other ten or twenty guys she ultrasounded that day.”
Bob’s shoulders rose a couple inches. “Really? Did you have to ruin this for me? You couldn’t just let me have this one?”
I did feel a little guilty, or I did right after I suppressed some internal laughter. “C’mon, Bob. You don’t even remember her name. What are you going to do? Call over there and ask for the name of the ultrasound lady?”
Bob’s face brightened. “Ooh! I can set up another appointment!”
“Really? You don’t think that’ll look suspicious? And stalkerish?”
Bob was crestfallen. “I suppose you’re right. I guess all I can do now is hope she’s there when I have it fixed.”
I didn’t have the heart to mention it was unlikely most women found it sexy to watch a testicle removed from its sack, drained of fluid, and sewn back up. He could figure that out on his own, so I dropped it and moved on to baseball, a subject on which Bob and I share a good bit of common ground, and where all the balls are the same size.
