12:24 p.m. –Gluttony
She's halfway through her third muffin when he plops down at the table, slamming his tray like a moody adolescent at the lunch period. He tears open a chip bag loudly and stuffs a handful into his mouth, crumbs cascading down onto the table like starchy snowflakes.
Neither of them says anything, each waiting for the other to speak. Her finger hooks around the handle of her tea mug and she watches him as she takes a sip of the warm liquid. It hits the tastes buds in her mouth, depositing specks of citrus and caffeine on her tongue.
After a while, she becomes irritated by the silence. Or the almost silence, save for him chewing noisily across the table from her. The scene is an odd one because the two of them never have lunch together, much less come in this close proximity. He is usually hiding in a bathroom stall reading Playboys or listening to the Rolling Stones in the morgue. As she opens her mouth to question his presence, he cuts her off.
"It's not Marfan's or Elhers," he says between a bite of sandwich.
"You usually don't update me on your cases."
"And you usually don't sit in on my differentials," he sneers.
"Oh, good Lord. Are we back to that again?"
"Don't bring Him in to this. You are the one who had to stick your nose in where it normally doesn't belong. And your ass. And Ben and Jerry."
"Who?"
"Ben," he points to her left breast and then the right. "And Jerry."
"You named my breasts after ice cream?"
"They just look so darn delicious."
Gritting her teeth, she tries to let the comment slip by. The plaster of the mug would probably give way to the pressure of her palms pressing into it if she kept up her current grip, but she eases up and tries to let the wave of emotion pass over her and cloud.
"Could be hydrocephalus," she tries, desperate to change the awkward subject.
"Water on the brain. Right. Only the guy hasn't been convulsing and shows no signs of mental retardation."
"Could be a consequence of a CNS infection, meningitis, or head trauma. The latter could be causing the headaches."
"No signs of infection, no report of meningitis," he dismisses, looking around. "As for the headaches, I am beginning to wonder if 'Lisa Cuddy' would be an acceptable excuse for trauma to the brain. I feel a pain coming on."
"What is it you always say?" she asks, swirling the tea in her mug. "Everybody lies?"
He tips his chip bag up and leans his head back, sprinkling the remnants into his mouth. After, he stands and grabs his tray from in front of him.
"This was fun. Let's not do it again though," he says sarcastically.
He reaches into his pocket and lets the scrap of paper in his hand float down to her and land on the table. She glances at the print and then brings her vision back up to him, only he is halfway across the room. He tosses the whole tray in the trash and throws a devious smile back to her.
After she finishes her drink, she walks over to Charlene, the cafeteria worker, and hands her the paper.
"Put it on my tab," she says with a shake of her head.