"Is this the neurosurgeon you told me about?!"
Silence.
Colletta's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession: confusion, horror, panic, and something that might be the dawning realization that she is about to be caught in a lie.
I shift my gaze downward, meeting Colletta's eyes. The height difference between us is significant, she barely reaches my chest even in those heels she's wobbling in.
She stares up at me, and I can read the message in her wide, panicked expression as clearly as tactical hand signals,HELP. DO SOMETHING. FIX THIS DISASTER.
Her pupils are dilated. Her breathing has become shallow. This is a distress response.
I made my decision.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady and confident.
Colletta's mouth falls open, her jaw going slack in what appears to be complete shock. A small squeaking sound escapes her throat—barely audible, but I catch it. Her fingers dig into my arm with surprising force for someone her size.
Monica's hands fly to her mouth. "I KNEW IT! I knew you were seeing someone! Dennis owes me fifty bucks!" She turns, yells across the garden, "DENNIS! I WAS RIGHT!"
"Kruk," Colletta whispers. "What are you doing?"
"Maintaining cover," I whisper back.
"You're not a neurosurgeon."
"I am now."
"You can't just?—"
Monica spins back, grabbing my hand, shaking it with excessive force. "It is so wonderful to finally meet you! Lettie's been so secretive about you, we were starting to think you were made up! What's your name? Where do you practice? How did you two meet? Oh my god, tell me everything!"
I look at Colletta.
She looks at me.
Her expression clearly communicates: Fix this.
"Kruk," I say, applying standard identification protocol. My name. Clear. Unambiguous. No room for misinterpretation.
Monica's smile freezes on her face, the expression locked in place like a tactical position that's suddenly become untenable. Her eyes do a quick scan—down to my tattoos, up to my face, back to Colletta, then to me again. Threat assessment. Social confusion. "I'm... I'm sorry?" she says, her voice climbing half an octave. "Your name is... Kruk?"
"My name. Kruk."
"That's... unique."
"It is traditional."
"Right. Of course." Her gaze drops to my hand, still in hers, and I realize she is staring at the tribal tattoos that crawl up from my wrist. "And you're a... neurosurgeon."
"Affirmative."
"Specializing in...?"
I do not know what neurosurgeons specialize in.
"Brains," I say.
Colletta makes a choking sound.
