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Soon
“He grabbed the syringe and waved it around and shouted, ‘I’m Spartacus!’” the surgeon said.
We were standing on the deck of the catamaran; Christmas lights twinkled along the lower edge of the window to the bridge. Wine was flowing, and laughter fell through the air, and the stars shone high above Waitemata Harbour.
“And then,” the surgeon said. “And then, do you know what he did?”
“No,” someone said as I smiled at Michael.
He grinned back and then leaned in close and whispered, “Let’s slip away before he gets to the part about the bedpans.”
I nodded my head in vigorous agreement and followed him off the main deck, wending our way down the tight corridors, until we found a seat on the port side of the boat miraculously empty.
I sat down, relieved to get off my high heels, and snuggled into the seat back out of the wind.
“Are you cold?” Michael asked, making a move to take off his suit jacket.
“No,” I said, resting my hand on his arm to still him. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Just say the word,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to show off my chivalrous side.”
“The moment a shiver racks me, you’re on.”
“Good,” he said. “I’d hate all the practice I’ve done before my bathroom mirror to be for nothing.”
“I practised my presentation in front of the mirror,” I said.
“The ambulance one?”
“Yes.”
“It showed,” he said. Then winked. “You were a professional.”
I snorted.
“I seem to remember you telling me that once in the supermarket.”
“You remember that?” I asked.
“I remember every word we shared, Trolley Girl.”
My breaths sped up for all the right reasons.
“Do you miss it?” he asked.
“Ambulance?”
“Yeah,” he said, settling into the seat, shoulder to shoulder.
“I miss the camaraderie.”
“You don’t get that here?”
“Not so much black humour.”
“I can crack a joke for you if you like.”
