What I’m proud of most in my life is my work.
It helps that the hospital is the one place where my mind behaves itself properly. Patients require focus, and focus leaves very little room for distractions of any kind. When a life rests in your hands, wandering thoughts become a luxury a sensible physician cannot afford. It is one of the reasons I’ve always appreciated the structure of my profession.
My morning passes in the familiar rhythm of rounds and consultations. Nurses move efficiently between rooms, speaking in low voices as they monitor patients and update charts. I check on several expectant mothers whose pregnancies have been complicated by cardiovascular concerns, reviewing their vitals and discussing the next steps with the attending physicians.
Later, I assist in a delivery involving a woman whose heart condition required careful planning throughout her pregnancy. The procedure proceeds smoothly, which is always the best possible outcome in situations like these. The child’s first cry fills the room a moment later, sharp and insistent, and the relief on the parents’ faces is immediate and unmistakable. Moments likethat are the reason many physicians enter obstetrics in the first place.
By the time evening arrives, I’ve spent nearly twelve hours moving from one responsibility to another. The drive home across the city is quiet, Boston settling into its nighttime rhythm. The cold air carries the faint scent of the harbor, and pedestrians move briskly along the sidewalks as they make their way home from work.
My penthouse is exactly as I prefer it. Everything is orderly and quiet, which suits me well enough after a long day at the hospital. I loosen my tie and pour myself a small glass of whiskey before moving toward the window overlooking the street.
A young couple passes beneath the glow of the lamppost outside, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. For reasons I cannot quite explain, my thoughts drift as I watch them disappear down the sidewalk. They drift away from work, away from the hospital, and toward a memory I have been trying rather unsuccessfully to ignore.
Sage.
It has been several weeks since that flight, yet she remains in my mind with surprising persistence. I am not a man who typically dwells on brief encounters. Life has always been far too busy for that sort of indulgence. Still, something about her lingers in a way that feels mildly inconvenient.
I suppose the explanation is simple enough. She was the last woman I slept with, and the mind has a tendency to revisit its most recent experiences. That seems logical. Sensible, even.
And yet, when the memory surfaces, it’s not merely the encounter itself that returns.
It is the taste of her. Sweet. Unreasonably vivid.
I take a slow sip of whiskey and set the glass down with deliberate calm. Clearly, the matter requires a practical solution.
I attempt to read for a while, settling into one of the chairs near the window with a medical journal open in my lap. The article concerns a promising new treatment for postpartum cardiomyopathy, and under normal circumstances, the topic would easily hold my attention. Tonight, however, I find myself rereading the same paragraph several times without absorbing a single detail.
The solution is obvious enough. When a man finds his thoughts lingering on one woman for longer than is reasonable, the most practical response is to remind himself that the world contains many others. It is not a particularly romantic philosophy, but I have never claimed to be a romantic man.
Boston’s nightlife is not particularly wild compared to cities like New York or London, but there are still a number of respectable establishments where a man can enjoy a drink without unnecessary chaos. I choose a bar not far from the harbor, one with dim lighting and a reputation for discretion. The sort of place where conversations remain private, and no one asks too many questions.
The interior is warm and quietly crowded when I arrive. Soft jazz drifts through the room, and the low hum of conversation creates a pleasant background noise that contrasts with the silence of my penthouse. I take a seat at the bar and order a whiskey, allowing myself a moment to survey the room.
My attention catches on a familiar detail across the room.
A woman sits at a table near the back, her back turned toward me as she speaks with a friend. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, the color of dark chocolate touched with cherry highlights. The sight of it sends a sudden, unexpected spark of recognition through me.
Sage.
I stand and cross the room before I’ve entirely considered the decision. The woman’s posture, the fall of her hair, even the slender line of her shoulders seems unmistakably familiar. A faint sense of anticipation builds in my chest as I reach the table.
I lift a hand and gently tap her shoulder. “Forgive me,” I begin.
She turns.
And immediately, I realize my mistake.
The woman looking up at me is attractive, certainly. Her brown eyes widen slightly with curiosity. Up close, however, the resemblance to Sage vanishes almost entirely. The hair is similar, yes, but the rest of her features are completely different.
Still, I have already interrupted her evening, and a gentleman does not simply walk away without acknowledging the intrusion. “I’m terribly sorry. I mistook you for someone else.”
Her expression softens almost immediately, curiosity replacing the initial surprise. “That’s a new one. Usually, people pretend they meant to say hello.”
Her friend across the table watches the exchange with open interest, clearly amused by the situation. The woman herself tilts her head slightly as she studies me, and I can see the moment recognition of my intentions settles into her eyes.
She assumes I approached her deliberately.
I could correct that misunderstanding, of course. Instead, I simply maintain the calm composure that has served me well in far more complicated situations.
