Look. Don't Touch.

short fiction | horror

Photo by whitesession on Canva

I follow the chief surgeon’s swaying backside down the endless corridor to her office. The click of her heels on the concrete tile sends a message to my pelvis. I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep it from moving to her rhythm.

Salsa classes. My wife guilted me into them. She thought it would spice up our marriage. All it did was give me a reason to get turned on when she isn’t around. Like I need another one.

We’ve been walking forever, but I’m not exactly hating the commute. I’ve never seen so many beautiful women in one place. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, lab technicians. All of them women. All of them stunning. Almost … too stunning. Having a real hard time remembering why I’m here.

You can look. Just don’t touch.

Right. My wife.  

“You haven’t asked how the procedure went,” Doc says cooly, without turning around.

“Oh, yeah.” I jog a few steps to catch up and am hit with a waft of something floral and familiar, but I can’t place it. I take a deep breath t…