The Mammogram Machine

A story of the sexes

“I know it’s probably easy for me to say,” Owen said, “but I really don’t think you need to be nervous.”

In front of their car, a woman yanked open the glass door to the clinic and went inside, leaving the blowing snow to swirl on the sidewalk. Val watched it. It wasn’t graceful, but frantic, trapped in its draft spiral.

Owen tapped her thigh remindingly.

She hit the button to drop the glove compartment door and took a mint from the tin. “Everyone says it hurts.” She chewed the spearmint disc, cool in her teeth.

“Well, sure, but it can’t hurt that bad if they still do it. Besides, people just like to complain. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, Val. I really — I have to go.”

She turned to wave at him before he drove off, but he was already pulling out of the lot, heading to his own appointment. She went inside.

When her turn came, a nurse led her from the lobby to a private changing-and-waiting booth, where a blue gown wrapped in clear plastic was sitting on a bench.

“Take everything off,” the nurse said, “and put on the gown so it opens in the front.” She left, half-pulling the curtain.