I am sitting on a cold vinyl bench wearing a backless dress made of paper. My annual physical is winding down and, having drawn my blood and looked in my ears and placed her finger up inside me, my doctor is writing things on a clipboard and making small talk. I’m nodding and smiling and thinking about the pancakes I’m going to eat as soon as I get out of here, when she asks a question that both breaks my breakfast reverie and makes me want to kill myself.
