June 6th
Zero hour. First interview. Here we go. Sarah looked down at the file, then up at the webcam, and offered a smile she hoped at least appeared somewhat genuine. "Ms Koych, how nice to begin our interview at last."
The woman on the screen looked down her long nose at Sarah. "If you say so."
Ouch. Sarah kept her expression pleasant. "My apologies for the delay, and also for not conducting a face-to-face meeting."
"It's quite understandable. Manhattan can be an intimidating place to visit if you've never been to a big city before."
Sarah gritted her teeth. "I'm sure that's true. Shall we proceed?"
"Of course."
"Thank you." Sarah paused. "Would you tell me please why you would be the best person for this position."
"Mrs. Goldman—"
"Doctor," Sarah said politely. She'd already said it twice.
"Doctor Goldman, I'm not accustomed to the sort of question you'd find some middle management flunky asking young girls hiring on as clerks." The tone was cool, with the faintest whiff of disbelief.
"And yet I'm still asking it, ma'am," Sarah said. "If you would indulge me please, I'd be most appreciative."
The woman sighed. "Very well. I have twenty years experience with a prestigious practice in the heart of Manhattan, working with four physicians who are all highly regarded both within their specialties, and internationally. As a result I'm quite used to handling celebrities, high-ranking military officers, senators and Forbes 500 entrepreneurs." She paused. "You have my references."
Sarah nodded. Very high-falutin' references they were too, and totally meaningless. Horseshit is still horseshit, even if it comes out of a Triple Crown winner. "Yes ma'am, I do."
"What more need I say?" Ms Koych looked impatient now. "Surely that's sufficient for your purposes."
"How do you think your colleagues feel about your work?"
Ms Koych looked surprised, then offended. "First of all I have no colleagues in this practice. There are receptionists and nurses. They are assistants, not equals. Anyway, why on earth would I ask them to write a letter of reference for me?" She gave a slight sniff. "I'd certainly never do it for them."
Sarah sighed silently. "Of course. Let's move on to the next question. How you would deal with a doctor who takes an unusual, even unorthodox, approach to the practice of medicine?"
"Define 'unorthodox'," Ms Koych said with some suspicion.
"For example, deliberately giving a patient malaria to force symptoms of the true illness to come to light," Sarah said.
There was a shocked silence. Then, "it would be my duty to remind Doctor House of his Hippocratic oath. I would also admonish him to consider the inevitability of higher malpractice insurance rates. It's pointless to incur extra costs if they can be avoided by using safer methods of diagnosis and treatment."
Aaaand we're done. Dammit, she looked so good on paper. "I see. Thank you for your time, Ms Koych. I'll be sure to let you know one way or the other shortly—"
"I need a specific date. I have resumes at several other practices and have already received notices that I've been accepted for positions."
Hah. I'm callin' horseshit on that, lady. Either you got fired from your job for being an insufferable nimrod or you're just plain lying. "I'm afraid I can't give you a firm date, ma'am. Most likely at the end of the month at the very soonest. There are other candidates applying for this job."
"Very well. Call me at the number listed on the cover sheet." And with that the other woman reached out and turned off her webcam. Sarah struggled with her desire to punch a fist through the monitor.
"Right," she said at last. "I don't think so." She sat back and sipped her cold tea, savored the hit of caffeine even if it was stale, and did her best to expunge the last ten minutes from her mind. A quote came to her, something from that movie Gene and the guys in the band liked so much—Desperado, that was it.
"I'm looking for a man who calls himself Bucho," she said, in a terrible imitation of Antonio Banderas's Spanish accent. "That's all. But you had to do it . . . the hard way." She took Ms Koych's resume, removed the staple, and fed each sheet into the shredder with quiet satisfaction. Once the job was done, she glanced at the next resume from the thick stack on her desk and began to type in the link provided. When the webcam video window opened and indicated the person at the other end was available, she clicked on it and assumed a cheerful expression.
"Good morning, this is Doctor Goldman. I'm calling in reference to your application . . ."
Roz wiped the sweat from her forehead and looked over the diagram once more. She squinted at it, rubbed her eyes and closed them for a moment; they burned with tiredness. Just like the rest of me. She found no humor in the thought. With a sigh she straightened and stretched her sore back, then glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven already; might as well go ahead and call it a day. She'd worked almost without a break since six that morning, and her capacity to concentrate was seriously impaired by a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Ten minutes later she pulled up in front of her place—Barbarella hogged the driveway yet again—and got out. She moved slowly now, her legs and back stiff. She felt a little bloated and achy; she was off the pill for the next six days, which meant her period would start sometime tomorrow. A little dinner, a hot shower and a chance to snuggle with her man sounded like heaven. Roz opened the door and came in, stopped to remove her boots and jumpsuit so she wouldn't track grime and dust into the house.
Greg was crashed out on the couch, with a game on the tv. He'd eaten already, if the empty plate and bottle of beer on the coffee table was any indication. Roz didn't bother to greet him. She knew if she said or did anything while he was absorbed in the play-by-play, he'd just ignore her. She went into the kitchen and found the peanut butter and strawberry jam jars on the counter, both without lids, the bread loaf and a bag of potato chips also left open, and a dirty butter knife tossed carelessly into the sink. Roz surveyed this clutter and the message it conveyed, torn between exasperation and reluctant amusement. After a few moments she went to the fridge, took out a few ingredients and set to work.
Fifteen minutes later she'd just added pasta to the salted water in the pot when Greg appeared in the doorway, beer in hand. "What's for dinner?" he wanted to know. Roz glanced at him and offered a slight smile.
"I'm having spaghetti with pesto and pecorino and what's left of the salad," she said.
"Isn't that what I'm having too then?" Greg leaned against the doorjamb and took a long swallow.
"It looks like you ate already." Roz picked up the microplane and began to grate the cheese.
"You weren't here when I came home," Greg said. "You've come in late almost every night for the last three weeks."
"That's because evening's the only time I have to do the wiring at the clinic besides the weekend," Roz said. "As you well know."
"If I'd realized you'd be married to the damn clinic instead of me I never would have agreed to renovate it." Greg finished the beer and set the bottle on the counter. Roz paused. So, not just accusation; there was resentment and something else, something he didn't want to bring out directly into the open. She put down the microplane and turned to face him.
"The more time I spend in the evenings working on the wiring, the sooner it gets done," she said quietly. "We agreed to that in the beginning. I offered to take off two nights a week."
Greg folded his arms. "Don't do me any favors."
Roz felt a spurt of irritation. "Maybe I'd like to come home before hitting the twelve hour workday mark and get to see my husband in some state other than comatose and snoring the house down. Maybe I'd like to put my feet up and watch the game and have a beer before I fall asleep on the couch."
"So now it's my fault you work longer hours."
"I didn't say—" She took a breath, counted to five. "Okay. From now on I'm taking two nights off."
"I look forward to the resumption of domestic tranquility and order." Greg turned away. "I'm going back to watch the game. You can bring me a plate."
Roz watched him go and entertained a number of decidedly un-tranquil thoughts. She drained the pasta, tossed it with the pesto and took it and the grated cheese with her to the dinner table. She watched the last bit of early summer sunshine fade from the back yard as she ate. Then she washed up, dried her hands, fed an affectionate Hellboy, grabbed a clean plate from the dish rack and left the kitchen. Greg looked up from the game.
"You forgot something."
"Nope." Roz handed him the plate and went into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, peeled off her tee shirt and shorts, tossed them into the hamper and unhooked her bra as Greg came in. He shut the door and leaned against it, arms folded; he watched her with eyes gone bright and cold as ice.
"So this is how it's gonna be from now on," he said. "I spend evenings alone and you play games and go to bed without me."
Roz stepped out of her briefs. "Can we postpone this discussion for ten minutes so I can get a shower? I have grit in places I never thought grit could turn up, and my back is killing me."
Greg smirked but there was no real humor behind it. "How stupid are you, ignoring your number one weapon—you standing there naked."
"Yeah, right. My boobs aren't anywhere near big enough to hold your interest during a fight." Roz took her robe from the foot of the bed and went into the bathroom.
When she emerged from the shower it was to find Greg gone. As Roz pulled on a clean pair of undies and a tank top she considered her options. She could talk to him, but the mere thought filled her with apprehension. It would be a mistake; she tended to be more emotional right before her period, and tiredness made it worse. The last thing she wanted to do was break down in front of her husband and be accused of blackmail. But I don't want this hanging over us either. She struggled with the decision, caught in a conflict of interest.
In the end she went to bed. My head will be clearer in the morning. We'll get things worked out then, was her last thought before she dropped into sleep.
June 7th
Greg is pulled into wakefulness by the feel of the mattress as it shifts a bit. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinks as they adjust to the darkness. After a few moments he can see Roz sits on the edge of the bed, bent over slightly. Her arms are wrapped tight around herself; her whole attitude is one of pain. As he watches she gets to her feet and goes into the bathroom. She moves as if her back bothers her. He remembers she'd said it hurt, and wonders if she pulled a muscle or tried to carry something too heavy for her. He's already taken her to task for that on several occasions with no effect.
A few minutes later she returns with the heating pad. Her features are tense, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she plugs in the pad, moves the bedclothes, lies down and settles in, places the pad on her abdomen. Now he knows what the problem is. His anger from earlier that evening wars with his concern. Worry wins out, at least for the moment. "How bad are the cramps?" he says quietly.
"Didn't mean to wake you up, I'm sorry."
"How bad?" he asks again, and puts a little snap in his words.
"I'll live." The weariness in her voice tugs at him, makes his annoyance over their unresolved fight seem foolish. He comes closer, rests his hand on her hip, then rubs her thigh, just a gentle pressure. She sighs softly. "Mmmm . . ."
He takes this as encouragement and moves in behind her, lets his touch trail down to her belly. He slips under the heating pad and massages her abdomen, using a slow circular stroke. Roz leans back against him, relaxes as he drifts lower. His fingers slide through soft curls to the cleft between her thighs. When he parts the warm folds and finds her clitoris she groans a little but doesn't pull away.
"Endorphins will help with the contractions and bring on your menses," he whispers in her ear. "Just let me do the driving."
He works her gently, eases her bit by bit toward release so that her orgasm fills her up with sweetness. He likes her slender body cradled in his so that he can feel every ripple of sensation as it courses through her. She shudders and moans and relaxes against him, her hurried breaths smooth out as the pleasure soaks in, and sleep gradually claims her once more. He puts the heating pad in place and slides an arm around her, cups her breast in his palm. She was wrong about him and his interest; her rack might be modest, but he gets exclusive rights and that's enough to keep him happy. If only everything between them could be solved in such a forthright and simple fashion . . . He closes his eyes and sends the wish off into the darkness, though he knows it'll never be answered or fulfilled.
Roz threw the last of the wash into the dryer, shut the door, set the timer for an hour, and went into the bedroom to pause in the doorway. Greg was still asleep of course; it was a rare moment when he was vulnerable, his defenses down. There was a curious innocence in his expression she treasured, something she'd never tell him or anyone else.
We need to talk, but not right now. She'd come to see him at work in the afternoon, make sure to be home a little after five tonight too. Supper would be ready to go, she'd already filled the slow cooker with a pot roast and vegetables and put red wine in with the stock and garlic to make au jus the way he liked it . . . Roz remembered his touch in the darkness, tender and gentle, and fought the urge to call in sick and spend the day in bed with her husband. They'd just had a month together only a few weeks ago; she had a stack of calls to answer, and that didn't include the clinic renovation.
On a sigh she turned away, went to the front door, picked up her toolbox and went out into the new day, as she tried to remember how to get to the Besselmeyer place with the detour.
Greg limps into the kitchen to find everything still set out from the night before—peanut butter, jam, chips and bread. He looks at the clutter as a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. Then he spots the slow cooker on the counter with a neon green post-it note stuck to its side. He ambles forward and pulls it free, not sure what it will say- 'I'm sorry' or 'I love you' or some other sappy line.
turn me on before you leave
see you at 2
TY for turning me on last night too, Fingers –R
He stares down at Roz's neat, firm handwriting and can't help it, he has to laugh. Just that quickly the fight is done, she's won this round and he really doesn't care, because . . . Because she's not boring, he thinks, and goes in search of the lid for the peanut butter jar.