1
Nothing seems right.
Besides the fact that Lisbon and I act like strangers, the crocus bulbs I'm forcing are refusing to bloom.
I carefully chilled the bulbs first. Chilling my bulbs is a time-honored tradition with me.
I watched the temperature and was careful with light. They grew long shoots right away, the buds developed, and now nothing.
After a week of expecting to come home to flowers, I'm resigned to the fact that the buds will shrivel and die just as they are.
Isn't that perfect?
I didn't cultivate Lisbon half as well as the crocus bulbs. I didn't nourish her and pay attention to her growing conditions.
The result seems to be that the women who haven't died under my red thumb, seem to whither under my brown one.
So our relationship is languishing. We don't bother to talk much anymore. Just job stuff and teasing.
Each joke has its precursor in another joke. No new subject is introduced. Every response is codified. Anything else is too scary.
I blame me and I blame her.
She blames me.
But I don't know how to ask if she'd be interested in a basket case that promises to be good to her. In a grieving widower who views every minute of happiness he has with her as a slap in the faces of his dead family.
I am in show business. I'm a performer and most of the time, I act like none of what happened to me happened. The question is, if I can seem happy even when I'm miserable will that work for her?
I haven't yet had the dinner with Lisbon when I lay that future out before her. The nightmares and the lost weekends. And what happens on Charlotte's birthday or when I see a woman on the street with a smile like Angela?
2
The doctor will see you now.
Seems the FBI is endlessly curious about the health of its employees.
This is my semi-annual physical. Lisbon and Cho went yesterday. Fischer and Abbott were this morning.
They've taken samples of all possible effluvia my body can produce. I feel drained and a bit embarrassed. They seem thrilled with everything I gave them.
The doc doesn't look at me as he checks off my yes/no answers.
He backs up from his desk and thrusts out his hand.
"Be well, Patrick."
3
Traffic is good and I'm back on my couch in fifteen minutes.
Lisbon is on hold with some official entity as I sink down on my couch.
"Wait, wait," she says, "don't put me on hold again, don't—"
She looks at me, places a finger gun to her head and pulls the trigger.
I laugh.