"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it. You learn to tell the difference between sorry as a social nicety and sorry as inI understand this specific genre of pain.
"I found her," he continues, voice flat. "Blue lips, foam around her mouth, already cold. Did CPR anyway. Broke three of her ribs trying to bring her back."
"That's—" Normal, I want to say. That's what happens. That's what we tell families.We did everything we could. The broken ribs mean we tried.But he doesn't need medical validation. He needs—I don't know what he needs.
"What was her name?"
"Emma. She was a kindergarten teacher."
“She sounds lovely."
"She was five years younger than me and infinitely better."
We sit with that for a moment. I hear him moving, maybe pacing.
"Your turn," he says. "Something true."
I close my eyes, sink deeper into my pillows that definitely need washing.
"I haven't been able to come without a vibrator in two years," I say, because apparently wine makes me confessional. "Not since my ex told me I was too much work."
"Your ex was a fucking idiot."
"Emergency trauma nurse, actually."
He huffs. "Same thing."
Another laugh escapes.Who is this person I become at 1 AM with strangers?
"What else?" he asks, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher.
“What else, what?"
"What else is true?"
This is dangerous territory. This is where smart people hang up.
"I've been thinking about your hands all day," I admit. "During surgery. During rounds. I was suturing a lac and wondering what your knuckles would feel like against my mouth."
"Fuck." The word comes out strained. "You can't just—"
"What?” I cut him off. “Tell the truth? You asked."
"I didn't expect—"
"What did you expect?"
Silence. Then, "Not you. Never someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
"Smart. Funny. Saves lives while I—" He stops.
"While you what?" I press.
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
