They were lying in bed—Zayne reading another medical journal, Nana beside him, unusually quiet.
Too quiet. This is suspicious.
He glanced over to find her staring at his hand.
The one holding his journal.
"Hamster?" he asked carefully. "Why are you staring at my hand?"
"It's pretty," she said simply, reaching over to take his hand in both of hers.
*Pretty. She called my hand pretty. What—*
Nana pulled his hand closer, examining it with intense focus, turning it over, tracing his fingers with her small ones.
"So long," she murmured, comparing her tiny hand to his much larger one. "And elegant. Like... like piano hands. Or surgeon hands. Which you are! A surgeon! So it makes sense!"
*She's analyzing my hand anatomy. This is oddly adorable and concerning.*
"Your hands are small," he observed. "Proportionate to your height but—"
"Mina said," Nana interrupted, still playing with his fingers, "that men with long, elegant hands also have other things that are long."
Time stopped.
Zayne's brain short-circuited.
WHAT.
WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY.
MINA. MINA SAID WHAT.
"She said it's a correlation!" Nana continued innocently, completely unaware of the crisis she'd just caused. "Like how you can tell things about people by their features! Is that true? Is it scientific?"
*I'm going to freeze Mina. Solid ice. Forever. Permanent ice sculpture. In the town square.*
"That's—" he started, his voice strained. "That's not—there's no medical correlation between—"
*How do I explain this. How do I scientifically refute this without confirming or denying or discussing—*
FLICK.
He flicked her forehead.
"OW!" Nana rubbed the spot, pouting. "What was that for?!"
"For listening to Mina." He sat up, setting his journal aside with more force than necessary. "I'm serious, Nana. If you continue being friends with her, I'm going to have daily conversations like this. She's corrupting your innocent mind with inappropriate—"
"But is it true?" Nana asked, still curious, still holding his hand.
*Of course she's still curious. She's always curious. This is psychological warfare.*
"I'm taking a shower," he announced, standing abruptly. "A cold one. Very cold. Arctic cold."
"But you didn't answer—"
"SHOWER. NOW. CONVERSATION OVER."
He fled toward the bathroom before she could ask more questions that would destroy what remained of his sanity.
Zayne stood under the spray of cold water, head tilted back, trying to erase the last ten minutes from his memory.
*Long hands correlate with other long things. She asked if it was scientific. MY WIFE ASKED IF—*
*STOP. Don't think about it. Don't think about her thinking about—*
*Cold water. Focus on cold water. Hypothermia. Frostbite. Anything.*
The water was freezing—exactly what he needed to cool down both literally and figuratively after another evening of french kissing his wife who made sounds that haunted his dreams.
*This is fine. Just shower. Get clean. Regain composure. Return to bed. Sleep. Survive another day.*
He turned off the water, stepped out, and reached for his towel.
His hand met empty air.
What.
He looked at the towel rack.
Empty.
No.
He looked around the bathroom.
No towel on the counter. No towel on the door hook. No towel anywhere.
NO.
*I forgot to bring a towel. I was so flustered by the hand conversation that I forgot my towel.*
He stood there, dripping wet, completely naked, staring at the empty towel rack like it had personally betrayed him.
*The universe. The universe hates me. This is confirmation. Official confirmation. The cosmos have specifically targeted me for suffering.*
He could:
1. Air dry (would take 20 minutes, impractical)
2. Use toilet paper (absurd, insufficient)
3. Ask Nana for a towel (mortifying but necessary)
Option three. Has to be option three.
He cracked the bathroom door open slightly.
"Nana?" he called out.
"Yes?" Her voice came from the bed.
"I need—" *why is this so difficult* "—I forgot my towel. Could you bring me one? They're in the closet, top shelf—"
"OKAY!"
He heard her bounce off the bed with enthusiasm.
Too much enthusiasm. This is concerning.
"Just—" he called quickly, "—hand it through the door. Don't come in. I'm—I'm not dressed."
"Okay!" she called back cheerfully.
*Good. Simple. Straightforward. She'll hand it through the door. Easy.*
He waited, hand on the door, ready to receive the towel through the gap.
Thirty seconds passed.
*What's taking so long? The closet is right there. The towels are clearly labeled.*
He heard footsteps approaching.
Good. Here she comes.
The bathroom door swung wide open.
Nana walked in, towel in hand, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
*NO. NANA NO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING. I SAID DON'T COME IN. WHY ARE YOU—*
"I'M NOT LOOKING!" she announced loudly, arms stretched out in front of her like a zombie, walking blindly forward. "MY EYES ARE CLOSED! SEE? VERY CLOSED!"
*This is a disaster. This is the worst possible scenario. She's walking blind in a bathroom with a wet floor and—*
BONK.
She walked directly into the wall.
"OW!"
"NANA—" Zayne started, but she was already spinning around, still blind, still with closed eyes, arms flailing.
*She looks like a confused ballerina. Or a baby bird trying to fly. This is ridiculous. This is—*
BONK.
She hit the other wall.
"WHERE ARE YOU?!" she called out, spinning again.
"I'm right—CAREFUL!"
She stumbled, tilting dangerously toward the toilet—
Zayne lunged forward, catching her elbow, and pulled her away from the porcelain disaster.
Which resulted in her stumbling directly into his chest.
Oh no.
Her hands flew out for balance.
And landed—
OH NO.
—below.
WELL below.
On something that was definitely not his chest.
Time froze.
Zayne stopped breathing.
Nana's eyes popped open.
*NO. KEEP THEM CLOSED. FOR THE LOVE OF—*
Too late.
Her eyes were open.
And looking down.
At where her hands were.
On him.
On—
Her face turned the color of a tomato.
"I—" she squeaked. "YOU'RE—"
*Yes. I'm naked. Very naked. And your hands are on—*
"AHHHH—" She tried to jump back but he was still holding her elbow to keep her from falling, which meant she couldn't move, which meant her hands stayed—
*This is how I die. Not from surgery complications. Not from overwork. From mortification. Pure mortification.*
"Nana," he managed, his voice strained beyond belief, "you can let go now."
"YOUR—" she was still staring, "—YOU'RE—"
*Stop staring. Please stop staring. This is not a medical examination.*
"Yes. Anatomy. Human male anatomy. You've seen diagrams in—"
"BUT YOU'RE—" she gestured wildly with one hand (thankfully removing it), "—LIKE A GREEK STATUE!"
What.
"EVERYTHING IS SO—" she made vague gestures, still not looking at his face, "—PERFECT! AND—AND—"
*She's analyzing my naked body. My wife is analyzing my naked body like an art critic. This is not happening. This is a nightmare.*
"WOW," she continued, apparently unable to stop herself. "HUSBAND YOU'RE SO—"
"NANA." He grabbed the towel from her other hand and wrapped it around his waist faster than he'd ever moved in surgery. "STOP. TALKING."
She finally looked at his face, her own face still bright red. "But you're so—"
"We're not discussing this."
"But—"
"EVER."
"Mina was RIGHT!" she blurted out. "About the hands! The correlation! It's TRUE!"
*I'm going to die. Right here. Death by wife confirming inappropriate correlations.*
"OUT," he said, pointing to the door. "OUT OF THE BATHROOM. NOW."
"But—"
"OUT!"
She scurried out, still red-faced, clutching her hands like they'd touched something sacred.
*They touched something. They definitely touched something. This happened. This is real. This is my life now.*
Zayne stood alone in the bathroom, towel secured, face burning, dignity destroyed.
*The universe. The universe looked at me and said "How can we maximally humiliate this man today?" And then orchestrated THIS.*
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 11:02 PM (BATHROOM)
Medical log - EMERGENCY ENTRY - DAY ELEVEN:
CODE RED. CODE RED. SITUATION CRITICAL.
What just happened:
- Forgot towel due to "hand correlation" conversation
- Called wife for help
- Wife entered bathroom BLIND
- Wife bonked into walls (twice)
- Wife almost fell in toilet
- Wife's hands landed on—
- —ON ME
- ON NAKED ME
- ON SPECIFICALLY—
I can't even write it. It's too mortifying.
Wife saw everything. EVERYTHING.
Wife said I look like Greek statue. (Flattering? Horrifying? Both?)
Wife confirmed Mina's correlation theory. (MINA WAS RIGHT. I hate this.)
Current status: Hiding in bathroom. Wrapped in towel. Dignity: Deceased.
Things my wife now knows:
- What I look like naked
- All of what I look like naked
- That Mina's theory was correct
- That I look like Greek sculpture apparently
Things I can never unknow:
- Her hands were on me
- She stared
- She said "WOW"
- She was IMPRESSED
This is good? Bad? Mortifying? All three?
I'm a doctor. I've seen countless naked bodies. I'm professional about anatomy.
Why is THIS different?
Because it's MY anatomy. And MY WIFE'S hands. And she said "perfect" and "Greek statue" and now I can never look at her without remembering—
STOP.
This is fine. Married couples see each other naked. This is normal. Natural. Expected.
But NOT LIKE THIS.
Not with blind stumbling and accidental groping and—
She touched me.
Below.
And looked impressed.
Is that good?
I don't know anymore.
I don't know anything anymore.
Prescription for self:
- Stay in bathroom forever (impractical)
- Face wife (mortifying)
- Pretend this didn't happen (impossible)
- Accept that wife has now seen everything (done)
- Deal with the fact that she seemed... appreciative? (confusing)
She said "wow."
What does "wow" mean?
Good wow? Shocked wow? Impressed wow?
Why am I analyzing "wow"?
Because I'm a disaster. A mortified disaster.
She knows about the correlation now.
Mina was right.
I'm never hearing the end of this.
Never.
But also...
She said "perfect."
Like she liked what she saw.
That's... that's good? Right?
I'm a married man standing in a bathroomoveranalyzing my wife's reaction to accidentally seeing me naked.
This is my life now.
Prognosis: Mortified but possibly... flattered? Confused. Very confused.
Note: Must face wife eventually. Cannot hide in bathroom all night.
Additional note: She definitely has questions. So many questions. She always has questions.
Final note: I'm wearing towel to bed. Fully clothed under towel. Maybe armor. Definitely avoiding eye contact.
God help me.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
Zayne emerged from the bathroom wearing pajama pants, a shirt, and what remained of his dignity (approximately 12%).
Nana was sitting on the bed, hands folded in her lap, looking anywhere but at him.
Her face was still red.
*This is fine. We're both adults. We can move past this.*
He walked to his side of the bed with as much composure as possible and climbed in.
Silence.
Deafening silence.
*Say something. Be normal. Pretend this didn't happen.*
"So—" they both started at the same time.
More silence.
"You first," Zayne said.
"No, you!"
*Neither of us wants to address this. Perfect. We'll just never speak of it again.*
"Let's just sleep," he suggested.
"OKAY!" Nana agreed too quickly.
They both lay down, facing away from each other, maintaining maximum distance on their king-size bed.
*This is fine. This is—*
"Zayne?" came her small voice.
Oh no.
"Yes?"
"You're really... um... built well. Like really well. Very... proportionate. And... Greek. Very Greek."
*She's complimenting my naked body. While we're supposed to be sleeping. This is—*
"Thank you?" he managed, his voice strangled.
"And Mina was right. About the correlation. Very right. Scientifically accurate."
*MINA. MINA IS GOING TO BE FROZEN. TOMORROW. I'M DOING IT TOMORROW.*
"Can we not—"
"I'm just saying!" Nana continued, apparently unable to stop herself. "For scientific accuracy! It's impressive! Medically impressive! You're very... anatomically blessed!"
*ANATOMICALLY BLESSED.*
*MY WIFE JUST SAID I'M ANATOMICALLY BLESSED.*
*I'M GOING TO COMBUST.*
"Nana."
"Yes?"
"If you want to continue living in this house, we never speak of this again."
Pause.
"...but you ARE—"
"NANA."
"OKAY OKAY! Never speaking of it! It's forgotten! Gone from my memory! What naked husband? I know nothing!"
*She definitely knows everything. And will probably tell her squirrel friends tomorrow.*
They lay in silence for approximately four minutes.
Then:
"But seriously though—"
"SLEEP, HAMSTER."
"Okay okay sleeping now! Very sleep! Much rest!"
*She sounds like a meme. My wife sounds like a meme. This is mylife.*
He closed his eyes, trying desperately to sleep, trying desperately to forget.
But he could feel her still thinking about it.
Could practically hear the gears turning in her head.
*Tomorrow. Tomorrow she'll have questions. So many questions.*
*Tomorrow she'll probably Google "Greek statue proportions."*
*Tomorrow she'll confirm more correlations with her terrible friends.*
*But tonight...*
*Tonight she said "perfect."*
*And "wow."*
*And seemed... impressed?*
*That's... that's something.*
*Even if the entire situation was mortifying.*
*Even if I can never use that bathroom again without remembering.*
*She thought I was perfect.*
*That's... nice.*
*In a completely mortifying way.*
*But still nice.*
*Maybe.*
*I don't know anymore.*
*I'm going to sleep before she asks more questions.*
*Good night, dignity.*
*You served me well for 27 years.*
*Rest in peace.*
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
NANA'S THOUGHTS - 11:34 PM
Oh my god.
OH MY GOD.
I SAW EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Husband is BUILT.
Like... really built.
EVERYWHERE.
Nana buried her face in her pillow, mentally screaming.
Mina was RIGHT. The correlation is REAL. Very REAL.
How am I supposed to look at his hands now without remembering?!
How am I supposed to look at HIM now without remembering?!
Greek statue. He really does look like a Greek statue. Perfect proportions. Perfect everything. PERFECT—
She rolled over, peeking at his back.
He's embarrassed. He's so embarrassed.
But also...
Also I'm married to THAT.
That's MY husband.
With the perfect everything.
And the long... hands... and other things...
She squeaked into her pillow.
I need to call Mina. No wait, he'll freeze her. Literally freeze her.
I need to tell someone. The squirrels? No, they won't understand.
I need to—
—I need to stop thinking about it.
But HOW.
It's right THERE. In my memory. Crystal clear. Perfect detail.
His muscles. His... proportions. His—
STOP.
Think about macarons. Think about trees. Think about—
Nope. Still thinking about naked husband.
This is going to be a problem.
A very distracting problem.
But also...
Also I'm very lucky.
Very, VERY lucky.
She smiled despite her embarrassment.
My husband is perfect. Inside and out. Literally.
And I'm the only one who gets to see... everything.
That's... that's nice.
Even though I wasn't supposed to see it yet.
Even though I stumbled in like a confused ballerina.
Even though I bonked into walls.
Even though my hands went... there...
She buried her face in the pillow again, muffling her squeal.
Tomorrow I'm going to pretend this never happened.
Tomorrow we'll be normal.
Tomorrow—
—tomorrow I'm definitely still going to be thinking about it.
Oops.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.