The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari Page B

Humiliated, I pretend the last minute never happened. I never whimpered in Martin’s face. Rubbing my sweaty palms together, I pray that Martin will wait until I leave the office before mocking me cruelly to the staff. Worst of all, I will now need to find a new dermatologist. Martin watches me, but I refuse to turn my pockmarked face.
    “Would you mind if I asked you out sometime?”
    This is a small miracle.
    “Oh, that would be . . . great.”
    “Excellent. I’ll get your number from your file,” Martin says, holding my vials of blood.
    The beauty of meeting a man at the doctor’s office is he already knows my condition, not that I could do much to hide the topography of my face. Martin is aware of the measures I am taking to eradicate them. If he weren’t already aware of this fact, I would find it necessary to bring it up. “Hey, I know my face is covered in pimples. Don’t worry, I’m seeing a doctor.”
    Thankfully, I don’t need to explain a thing as I sit across from him in a small Nolita restaurant named after one of my favorite things, bread. He’s in dark jeans and a black dress shirt.
    I’m nervous, but not for the reasons one would expect from an “almost virgin” on her first date in months. I am not worried about what will happen later. I actually look forward to the physical stuff; it seems much easier than talking. Conversation magnifies my weirdness. Come to think of it, sex probably does as well.
    We order, then sit in silence for almost sixteen seconds. I count to distract myself from the little voice telling me to scream.
    I want to scream. I want to holler at the top of my lungs to relieve the pressure in my chest. After wiping off my sweat ’stache, I prepare to act normal.
    “So what got you into medicine?” I ask quietly.
    “I had bad acne— the worst— almost ruined my life. Ended my first marriage, and after that I knew I had to get involved, help those less fortunate.”
    Wow, I’ve never thought of the plight of the pimple as such a significant societal issue. Clearly, I was wrong. I knew that pimples stopped relationships from starting, but I had no idea they had the power to kill them.
    “You’re really beautiful. You remind me a lot of Parker Posey.”
    “Thanks,” I say as my cheeks blush twelve shades of red.
    “I really admire the fact that you don’t cover up the acne with foundation, because a lot of beautiful women try to do that. It’s a force greater than they are. Sometimes it’s as simple as denial. They can’t admit what’s really happening because they don’t know how to fix it. They need tools. We provide those tools. I wish I could help every woman who needs it, but it’s hard. Some of them don’t have insurance, and seeing a doctor, especially a dermatologist, is a luxury they can’t afford.”
    “That happened to me. I had to beg my boss for insurance,” I say animatedly, enjoying the fact that I can relate to the downtrodden. I want Martin to like me, to respect me. He is a man of morals, ethics, and civil duty.
    “No one should have to beg for help. That’s why I want to start a free clinic for the underprivileged.”
    “You’re incredible,” I breathe, honestly moved by his speech.
    His confidence is mesmerizing, and he seduces me with his compassion for those born with overactive sebaceous glands. I follow this Gandhi-like figure through the streets of New York, listening raptly to every word, only occasionally bursting out with “Yes!” when overcome by one of his comments. We wind up on his couch, two feet apart, staring into each other’s eyes.
    For the first time in my life, I want to engage in sexual intercourse with the man I sit before. No need to watch Tom Paris on a rerun of
Star Trek
.
    Martin leans over, placing his soft hand on my bumpy cheek.
    “You’re a great candidate for Accutane.”
    “Thank you,” I awkwardly respond before he places his lips on mine. His soft lips brush against mine sensually, awakening