Page 19
“That he’s the guy every guy wants to be. And that he talks too much.” She considers her coffee. “I’ve had the rules explained to me four times. I enjoy it less every time.”
I look at the sheet.
Maren Ellis. Chronic right shoulder. Outside assessment. Monday at eleven thirty.
The man in the doorway returns with irritating clarity.
Broad shoulders. A dark beard with gray in it. A face accustomed to getting a response when it smiles.
What I remember most clearly is the arm. He brought it in against his ribs when my bag caught him and he did it without making a sound, which means he has been doing it long enough to have stopped noticing. There is a part of me that has been quietly taking apart the mechanics of his right shoulder since this morning.
That part of me is doing its job.
The rest is remembering that he looked at me across a parking lot, and that I turned around in order to let him, and that I have thought about it twice since then at traffic lights, which is not a thing I do.
Something low in my stomach pulls, and stays.
My face is warm. I put my hand flat on the desk and wait for that to be finished with me.
He is a rich athlete with a bad shoulder, and on Monday he will be on my table with his shirt off.
That is the entire situation.
“Monday at eleven thirty,” Gabi says.
“I can read.”
“I know. I was enjoying your face.”
“My face is doing nothing.”
“It’s doing something.”
“Stop enjoying it.”
“Absolutely not.”
I lower the referral. “You have work.”
“So do you.” She does not move. “You’ve met him.”
I look at the page.
“I have met his shoulder.”
Gabi waits.
I do not improve on the answer.
Across the waiting room Tova bends over the notebook, pencil moving steadily while her injured hand holds the page flat.
I look down again at Colt Riley.
His picture in the chart is unnecessary.
I know the face now.
That is inconvenient.
