By the end of the week, my period is over and I’m back in the swing of things, with two on-call shifts early in the week and a three-hour stretch at the clinic on Wednesday on top of my usual office hours. I’m working so much I’m barely home, but Peter doesn’t object, though I can sense he’s less than pleased with the situation. Despite my period, we’ve had s*x over the last few days—he wasn’t lying about his lack of squeamishness—and each time, he’s been unusually hungry, his touch unrestrained and borderline rough.
It’s as if he’s afraid of somehow losing me, as if he hears the ticking of some clock.
On Friday, I spend most of the day in my office, seeing patients, but just as I’m about to head home, I get an urgent message that one of my patients has gone into labor. Suppressing a wea
