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higher than the eye of God, even the cars
darted around like ants. Indistinguishable.
    My
thoughts shifted to Mia, and I wondered if she was still asleep, or what she
was doing, or if she was wondering the same.
    Goodbye,
Dr. Greene .
    When the
elevator doors closed, I had retreated into into an empty linen closet and
tried to compose myself. When that failed, I took the elevator down to the
first floor, popped my head into Triage, and said:
    “I'm
taking an early lunch.”
    The
nurses nodded. They flipped through their own paperwork, busy with their own
patients and orders and thoughts. But I didn't even bother taking lunch,
either. I simply got into my Porsche, turned the air-conditioning on, and
contemplated what an absolute lunatic I was.
    I had
taken a vow. I had made a sworn promise.
    And here
I was, obsessing over this girl, like a fucking juvenile. Not a grown man, in
his mid-thirties, with his whole life sprawled out in front of him, full of
plausible, viable possibility. And the statistical results were not in mine,
nor Mia's favor.
    A light
breeze tousled my hair, and I took in one final flicker towards the florescent
horizon before walking inside.
    Beneath
the harsh jets of scalding water, I came with an almost apocalyptic intensity
to the thought of Mia, her back against the glass tiles, her eyes tilted
upwards towards mine, her lip caught between my teeth.
    Fuck .
    Then I
dressed: a shirt, tie, lab-coat. I laced up my shoes, sighed heavily, and idled
for a moment in the parking garage, staring through the tinted-windshield of my
Porsche as if looking for something. And I guess I was, really. It was just
something I'd already lost.
    But I
could play the adult. I could continue on leading the part of a man who had
once had everything neatly nestled in a snug little box. I just needed to let
this fixation drop.
    And how
do men do this?
    Well,
it's not pretty. I'm not proud of it, either. But there's only one real answer:
we find someone else.
    So after
my rounds, sitting at the corner-table of the cafeteria, when Dr. Weisman came
up to me, knocked me on the shoulder, and asked: “How are things, Al?” I
nodded, shoved a fork-full of quinoa into my mouth, and decided to play the
game.
    “Alright,
Weis. How's the wife?”
    He
grinned. What a seedy fucker.
    “She's
fine. The kids are beautiful. The dog is great. The near-million-dollar
mortgage on that Tuscan estate that Elaine insisted we raise the girls in is
still burning a hole in my pocket. But dammit, Al,” Dr. Weisman always called
me Al, and I loathed it more than young boys loathe eating their vegetables.
“When are you gonna find yourself a wife?”
    “I'm not
sure if you recall, Nick, but I'm still in recovery from the departure of my
previous intended,” I muttered, noticing the small stain – ink, probably – on
Dr. Weisman's lab-coat. It bothered me more than was probably normal.
    “Oh,
Alex, we both knew exactly what that was. Sure, she was gorgeous, but
you looked at her with a fondness most men only reserve for prostate exams,” he
laughed. He had a smoker's laugh. “You should come to this benefit that Elaine
is holding tonight. I could introduce you to some women.”
    “Jesus,
Nick,” I said. “I don't know.”
    “What's
not to know?” he pressed. “When's the last time you got laid, anyway?”
    I know
what you're thinking: how in the honest-to-God hell could a doctor speak this
way? But they can, and they do. A patient's ears will simply never hear it.
    I cleared
my throat, set my fork down, and cut a glance at my watch. In an hour I'd need
to leave for the office, but I was ready to make any excuse to bail early. I'd
cleared through my roster of patients and had nothing better to do than turn
coffee into piss, anyway.
    “Can't
say I recall,” I said. “But you know, it's just not a good time for me, Nick.
Though I appreciate the sentiment, I'm focused on other pursuits at the present
moment.”
    “Such
as?”
    Raising
an