The waiting room is occupied by young folks festooned with tattoos, piercings and 'dos, their faces holding the practiced blankness I remember from high school. There's a funereal silence—no chatting, no cell phone gab, no hand-held game sounds. Odd man out, forty years their senior, I wonder, are they speculating about why I'm here?

To protect our identities, we've been given pseudonyms. When mine is called, I walk down a long corridor and enter the office of a nurse whose age is near mine. She says, "So why are you here?"

"I'm in a new relationship. I don't think that anything is wrong, but I'd like to be sure."

"I'll bet she sent you," she chuckles.

"Well, yes, we'd like to be sure . . ."

Snapping on latex gloves, she says, "Let's have a look."

"No, nothing's obviously wrong . . ."

"Well then," she sniffs, "I'll have to ask you some questions before we schedule the tests. How many partners have you had in the last five years?"

A number finds its way out that she writes on her clipboard.

"Have you been with any sex-trade workers?"

I want to tell her that my partners have always been women I know and care about, but I mumble "No."

"Now, we really should have a look," she says, repeating herself.

I decline and hurry out the door.

rose petals
in the vase
a thorny stem