connect | @kingdonmicrofic july 22 | 500
“I’m done talking about the hospital, Frank,” said Abby, carefully applying her lipstick in the car mirror.
He sighed, one hand on the wheel as he connected his bluetooth and began tapping his fingers along to the beat.
He’d made a great save during his shift earlier, maybe the best of his career, but she wouldn’t want to hear about that. Abby tended to prefer conversation topics on which she was the expert; contemporary literary fiction, Michelin star restaurants, designer runway collections.
“I mean it,” she said, “it’s the first date you’ve taken me on in months. No patients, no procedures, no nothing. Please.”
Normally he conceded to his wife, concealing whatever problem she was finding in him at that moment until she moved on to the next one. Today, he was ready to press it, tired of walking on eggshells and feeling like a squatter in their home. It was foolish of him anyway, to think his display of heroism would change her opinion that he was irredeemable.
He was about to fight back when his phone rang, blaring over the car’s bluetooth as her contact photo appeared on the screen. It was from the picnic they went on last week, Mel’s hair in two braids instead of one with a tall glass of lemonade held up next to her beaming smile. In the reflection of her sunglasses you could see Frank, smiling back.
“You’re kidding me,” Abby said, her arms crossing over her chest as he moved to answer it.
“Hey, Mel,” he said, tentatively.
“Hey, Frank. Where are you?” said Mel, sweetly.
Drops of cold sweat congregated on his brow bone as Abby angled her body towards him with accusatory raised brow, silently mouthing at him: “Frank?”
“I’m in the car. On the way-“
“So you told her? How’d it go?” said Mel.
Frank was in a full panic now, white-knuckling the wheel and staring straight ahead, ignoring the red-hot rage steaming off of his wife in the passenger seat.
“Mel. I’m, uh, on the way to dinner. Now. With Abby,” he said, throat tight.
The line went silent, his gaze triangulating between the road, her photo with her name underneath, staring at him from the center console, and Abby; the deliberate tap of her nails, the narrowing of her eyes.
“Oh,” said Mel, “Um, I’m sorry. I’ll call—or you can—ok bye bye.”
Frank let the remainder of their ride be awkward and silent and painful after she hung up on him. He let Abby seethe, let her brain conjure up whatever elaborate revenge plot her and her friends (that he’d never gotten along with) would inflict upon him.
“Abby?” he asked as he pulled the car into the restaurant parking.
She didn’t speak, her red lips sealed shut as she raised her eyebrows, daring him to continue.
“I’m gonna have to break the rules. At least a little. There’s no real way to have the conversation we’re about to have without talking about work.”
