where is my mind?

You roll your eyes, because while, yes, you did miss seeing even the most experienced doctors cower under the charge nurse’s glare, there was more you missed about working with your wife.

Pushing yourself off the wall, you move your body so your front is just barely hovering over hers. “You are a wonder,” you whisper, awe shining in your eyes. And before Dana can turn away or snark some witty deflection, you continue, “You tackle the unpredictability of the ED like a well-rehearsed routine—always calm, moving from one case to the next with a practiced grace.”

You take a glance at the space around you, and you’re content enough with the privacy the bay affords you before you crack a smile and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Dana’s ear.

“You’ve always been a dancer, no matter the stage,” you say, and Dana laughs—this time, full of light and amusement, and you swear it’s your favorite sound in the world.

“You’ve seen me perform Swan Lake at Lincoln Center,” she deadpans, “and you think that is a dance?”

Dana motions her head back towards the doors of the offending chaos you are both currently seeking reprieve from.

“Tchaikovsky has nothing on the intricacies of coordinating an MCI,” you tease.

“I’m sure the dirty old scrubs top the leotards and tutus too?” Dana sasses, pushing herself off the brick, moving you back along with her.

“As a matter of fact? They do,” you reply earnestly, letting your eyes fall and appreciatively trace your wife’s figure. Even seven hours into a twelve hour shift, Dana looks almost ethereal, her skin glowy and her glossy. If you voiced your thoughts, she would attribute it to sweat and tears—and maybe they were—but nevertheless, you loved your wife, at her best and her worst.

Before the discussion can continue, the sound of a siren interrupts as an ambulance pulls into the bay.

“Come on, smooth talker.” Dana squeezes your hip and loops her finger into your waistband, dragging you towards the incoming trauma. “Back to work.”