She drops her forehead to my chest and lets out one long breath. Then she’s off the table and pulling her scrubs back on, and I step back and button my trousers.
She checks her pager and swears under her breath, already back in her head. “I need to go.” She picks up her coffee and takes a long sip. Her chin is up, her scrubs are straight, and she looks almost entirely like a doctor again, except for the flush still working its way down her throat. She won’t quite look at me, but the corner of her mouth does something. “Staff exit. End of the hall, turn left.”
“Polina—”
“We’ll talk,” she assures me. “We will.” And then she’s out the door and moving fast, and I hear her footsteps shift into a near-run as she rounds the corner toward the OR.
I stand in the empty room for a moment. Her coffee is still on the counter where she left it. She didn’t even finish it.
I finish mine and set the cup next to hers.
She’s still furious with me, and she should be. I’m keeping things from her that will fuck everything up when they come out, and the longer I wait, the worse it gets.
But she called me when she was falling apart a few nights ago, and she led me down this corridor this morning instead of telling me to fuck off, and none of that is the behavior of a woman who’s done with me.
I keep coming back to the same point. She’s smart enough to know she should end this, but she hasn’t.
Neither have I.
The floor is busy when I step out. No one looks twice. I make it to the staff exit and slip out.
Next time, we need to talk about what this means.
There will be a next time. I’ll make sure of that.
