Flicking his confidence aside like a stubborn piece of asparagus, Dexter approaches the desk.  There is a wrinkle of concern on the receptionists face.  She is clicking her tongue, the sound pecks against the air like hail.  There is opera music in the background.  She takes her time looking up from the computer screen.  Dexter waits.  He is a patient man.

 ”Can I help you?”

 The words lunge toward him like a punch.  Her auburn hair is crammed into a bun, several strands sneak out, possibly trying to escape the hostile atmosphere she radiates.

 Dexter hands her the paper that was sent to him.  He is due for a prostate examination.

She makes a face.  Her mouth contorts into an exaggerated frown, as if she were a clown in training.  She shakes her head.  The skin on her face is tight against the bone structure, tense and ready to make the next person who peeks through the door uncomfortable with rude expressions.

 ”You need an appointment for this.  You can’t just walk in.  You need an appointment.  That is indicated in the letter.”

 She returns the paper to Dexter and he shuffles out the doorway, his ripped jeans feeling suddenly heavy.  He wonders if she is watching him leave, what she could possibly thinking about him, staring at his ruffled hair which he forgot to comb as he rushed to the office, wondering what horrendous malignancies his prostate could be hiding, how many puss-riddled inconsistencies could possibly be burying themselves in the depths of his own self.  He sits on a park bench outside of the office, staring at an old man strumming on a guitar across the street.  The man’s head is mostly bald, with the exception of a few white bunches of hair poking up from his scalp.  He does not sing, just strums a few chords here and there.

 After awhile of this staring, the receptionist emerges from the office, gripping the door with bony fingers, meticulously manicured, letting it shut almost silently, and it bumps against the other door like a dance partner.

 The receptionist glances at Dexter and says nothing, then stares at the man with the guitar, then releases some quick air between her teeth like a leaky balloon.  She is holding a muffin, possibly cornbread by the looks of it, a dull brown crest on top.  She sips a beverage from a thermos and looks back at Dexter, who makes eye contact.  She still says nothing as she sits at the far end of the bench, crossing one leg over the other and placing the muffin on her lap.  Her skirt is long, almost Amish-style long, a bare ankle peeking at the world far below.

 She appears to be making a mess on her face with crumbs and milk as she eats the muffin.  She wipes at her lips with her hand, carefully, probably due to the lipstick.  Dexter takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket and places it slowly on the bench between them, pushing it toward her with his thick fingers.  She does not look in his direction, still concentrating on the muffin, as the Guitar Man serenades her with his mismatched chords.

 Finally, muffin eaten, milk drank, she looks at Dexter, at this man who trembles at the tumors which may or may not be buried in his tissues, sending his cells into a panic, hormones squirting this way and that within him, and then at the handkerchief laying near her on the bench.  She picks it up, drops it on his lap wordlessly, then returns to the office, the door landing against its dance partner with a thud.