When physicians take the Hippocratic Oath they pledge to:

• Prescribe treatments according to abilities and judgment.

He tells me to reschedule his afternoon meetings. Invites me to lunch at some tucked-away nearly-empty basement café. Upon arrival he smiles at the waitress, asks for a back-room booth. She turns to me and I smile too. A look ripples across her face. Maybe she’s picked up the vibe. It’s benign, I want to say. We lunch together all the time—though never alone in a dimly lit room.   

We chit-chat about the menu, order drinks and food. This is us just having lunch I tell myself.Then he begins.  

“You’re such a great PA,” he purrs. “The way you organise my meetings, trips and days.” 

I shrug away this inane compliment. My job as his personal assistant isn’t complicated work. He smooths the already-flat placemat and his little finger strays. Grazes my forearm. The vibe pulsates. I can’t think of anything to say. He waits until I meet his gaze. 

“How’d you like some hands-on care?”

My stomach skitters. I polite smile at his brazen banter. He gremlin-grins back.

“You can trust me,” he says, leaning in. I inhale. Smell clean laundry, talcum powder, Paul Smith cologne. Stale coffee-breath. “We doctors take an oath.” He holds up both hands in a sanitised, ready-to-operate style. Delivers his trademark line, “These hands save lives.” 

Usually, we’re in a Monday morning team meeting when he talks about his hands. It’s a gag he makes for his staff—to show he’s a doctor who likes a laugh. A boss who knows how to have a good time at work. 

What we’re supposed to find funny is that he’s not a surgeon at all—he’s a licensed GP who moved into research and university teaching a long, long time ago. His medical practice now consists of power-point lectures, writing academic papers, chairing hospital boards—and running a prestigious research unit that comes with its own personal assistant. He may not engage with patients anymore, but he still has active hands. 

“Consider this a prescription for fun,” he says. Neither of us laughs when his VIP fingers land on my unimportant knee. Squeeze. 

Electricity surges through me. I jolt as if defibrillator touched while the world pops into colour. Maybe it’s true about his hands. 

• Refrain from causing harm or hurt. 

It started with compliments on my dress and hair. Progressed to daily morning lattes he delivered directly to my desk. Advanced from working lunches to lunches out. I could decline but the job is easy, with part-time hours to suit me. I tell myself his behaviour is fine—after all, managers are responsible for looking after their staff’s welfare. His attentiveness is effective tonic as I recuperate from my car-crash marriage and debilitating divorce. For the first time in a long time, I feel better. Enjoy the camaraderie and undercurrent of chemistry. And when his work texts blur into late-night flirting dancing right up to the line, I call it harmless fantasy. A way to keep dull work interesting. But today, here at lunch, I see a thin thread is all that separates emotional entanglement from physical affair. How this thread will dissolve like a surgical stitch with my simple Yes.

I look away from the gold ring on his left hand as it glimmers in the low-lit room. 

I should construct a diplomatic no. Tingle knowing I’m worth the risk. It won’t be often—only when he has out-of-town speaking engagements or conferences with overnight stays.

“We’ll keep it casual. Light,” he says. “Besides, don’t they say always follow doctors’ advice?”

I can’t help but laugh.

A fling might be just the thing I need. A vaccine boost for my self-esteem. I swallow away my hesitancy. Nod. Receive another knee squeeze. I’m doing this for me. 

• Live an exemplary personal and professional life.

At first, I thrive under a doctor’s care. The way his hands press, poke and prod are bliss. Champagne breakfasts in four-poster hotel beds are another curative touch. Gifts and afternoon rendezvous all contribute to my healthy glow. Being bad is spectacularly good—for him too. He’s a better husband now, he says. Domestic delight always turns into seven-year itch in need of balm. Thanks to me, he no longer begrudges his vows. Maintains his happy home and respected academic life. I’m a personal assistant making a personal difference in our double, not half, lives. 

But I can’t ignore the twinge of guilt when he steps out to call home. He misdiagnoses my complaint. Says he’ll feel a pang too when I date other guys—which he hopes isn’t anytime soon—and won’t that make for interesting performance reviews? 

• Help patients make informed decisions. 

One night when I’m in the hotel alone because he’s had an emergency at home, I Google the long-term prognosis of our clichéd arrangement. Even with second and third opinions the outcomes aren’t great. It’s not that I want him full-time but knowing I’m only worth crossing the line sometimes no longer feels good. Causes a different wound. 

As weekends and holidays alone pile up, side effects appear. Resentment festers. Boils. Sometimes bursts. Serious complications develop lying to family, friends and colleagues about how I spend my time. 

Now when his pudgy Play-Doh hands grab my butt or fondle my breasts as we take the back staircase to lunch, I feel sick. In team meetings when he raises his flabby arms and delivers that tedious line about his hands saving lives, I shake my head, roll my eyes. See a predatory man twisting Hippocratic Oath into self-serving joke. 

I take matters into my own hands. Ignore his messages, decline invitations. Go on a long solo vacation. Search job ads and apply. Follow different advice: each day, after lunch, I polish a Red Delicious until it shines. Hold it tight and whisper that line about apples, doctors and keeps away. Then take a great big bite.

About the author:

Originally from Missouri, Sherry Morris writes prize-winning fiction from a Scottish Highland farm where she pets cows, watches clouds and dabbles in photography. Her first published story was about her Peace Corps experience in 1990s Ukraine. Read more of her work at www.uksherka.com or follow her @Uksherka & @uksherka.bsky.social

Part of our Fall/Winter 2024 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through December 2024.

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