"I am not staring," I say, adjusting the cuffs of my white coat. "I am assessing the structural integrity of the boundary I established."
I point to thefloor.
Running directly down the centre of the cramped, windowless office is a strip of blue surgical tape. It starts at the door and ends at the far wall, bisecting the room with geometric precision.
On the left: My domain. My glass desk is polished. My laptop is aligned parallel to the edge. My single succulent, aEcheveria elegans, sits in a white ceramic pot, perfectly centred. The air on my side smells of sanitizer and high-end espresso.
On the right: The Exclusion Zone.
Jax’s desk is a biological hazard. There are three empty Red Bull cans forming a leaning tower. A stack of patient charts is being used as a coaster for a cup of coffee that I suspect has been there since Tuesday.
"The tape," Jax says, pointing his burrito at the blue line. "It’s very... passive-aggressive. I like it. Adds a certainOdd Couplevibe to the place. I’m clearly the fun one, which makes you the one who dies alone."
"I am Felix Unger," I correct him stiffly. "And he does not die alone. He simply refuses to live in filth."
"Whatever you say, Felix."
Jax sits up, brushing crumbs onto his scrubs. His gaze drifts to my desk. He frowns.
"Your plant looks depressed," he announces.
I freeze. I look at theEcheveria. It looks perfectly healthy. Its leaves are a robust, pale green. It is thriving in the precise amount of indirect artificial light I have calculated for it.
"It is not depressed," I say. "It is dormant. Succulents conserve energy."
"Nah," Jax says, shaking his head. "It’s bored. Look at it. It’s just sitting there in the silence. It needs stimulation. Maybe some heavy metal?"
"Plants do not like heavy metal," I snap, shielding the pot with my hand. "They respond to classical music and silence. Donot expose Frederick to Metallica. His leaves will wilt out of sheer acoustic trauma."
Jax’s eyes widen. A slow, delighted grin spreads across his face.
"Frederick?" he repeats. "You named itFrederick?"
I flush. "It is a dignified name for a dignified organism."
"Of course you did," Jax laughs. "He looks like a Frederick. Little stiff. Prickly. Needs to loosen up."
He leans across the tape line, invading my airspace.
"Don't worry, Fred," Jax whispers to the plant. "I’ll bust you out of here. We’ll go get tattoos."
"Do not speak to him," I order, turning back to my monitor. "You are disturbing his photosynthesis."
"I think he likes me," Jax says, settling back into his squeaky chair. "He’s leaning toward my side of the room."
"He is leaning toward the light source, which happens to be behind your head. It is phototropism, not affection."
"Keep telling yourself that, Max."
Jax takes a bite of the burrito. Salsa drips onto his scrub pants. He doesn't even flinch. He just wipes it away with his thumb.
I feel a physical twitch in my right eyelid.
"Do you ever stop eating?" I ask, trying to review the angiogram of a mitral valve repair I have scheduled for this afternoon.
"Calories in, calories out," Jax says with a full mouth. "Trauma burns a lot of fuel. You wouldn't understand. You guys in Cardio just stand in one place for six hours listening to classical music. It’s basically meditation with knives."
"It is precision," I snap. "It is the difference between a suture that holds for fifty years and one that leaks before the patient leaves therecovery room."
