Mark
Peter caught me smiling at my phone in the surgeons' lounge Thursday afternoon, which was apparently enough evidence on its own to launch a full interrogation.
"What," he said, dropping into the chair across from me with his lunch, "is that face."
"What face."
"That face. The one you're doing right now, where you look like a normal human being instead of a man who's spent the last decade treating joy as an inefficient use of time." He nodded at my phone, still sitting face-up on the table between us. "Who was that."
"Material samples review. Tomorrow. The architect confirmed the schedule." I said it in the same flat, professional tone I'd use to report a surgical outcome to a board member, and Peter, who has known me for fifteen years and has an infuriating gift for seeing direct
