Finkelstein put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder.
“That’s all I can tell you.”
Jerry could barely button the buttons on his shirt. His fingers felt like hot dogs and the buttons felt as small as tic tacs. He had come to trust the doctor and had begun to believe he could maybe fix it. Finkelstein snapped the metal clipboard closed and looked at him with big, sad eyes. He hated this part. He always hated this part.
“I’m sorry, Jerry.”
Jerry bumped into the wall on his way out of the examination room and two nurses saw it. He looked at them sheepishly, then realized that embarrassment, along with a whole host of other things, was something he wouldn’t be bothered with much longer.
What was it, anyway? Embarrassment seemed suddenly so abstract, so arbitrary. Why feel one thing when you can just as easily feel another? Great, he thought, wish I’d had that revelation sometime during my twenty years of therapy. Well, it’s never too late, he chuckled, as he turned up his collar and stepped out onto Prince Street.
Then, he stopped. Well, actually it is, bubbie. It is too late.
He jiggled the ice around in his glass, tried to tune out the band, and attempted to recall exactly what Finkelstein said.…