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MINKA
Darkness falls outside my floor-to-ceiling office windows. Cold wind picks up and, down below, the few trees lining the street dance in the gales.
Aubree has left already; she has a healthy respect for stylists and schedules and going to a ball.
Seraphina is gone too; she also enjoys the tortures of a salon visit.
No doubt, both fools are being waxed and pinched and poked and tormented, all in the name of beauty. And here I am, the smartest of our bunch, planning on going home to a hot shower, a baggy pair of sweats, a tub of sinful ice cream, and, if I’m extra lucky, maybe I’ll be able to pretend that Archer’s absence from my living room doesn’t tear strips from my soul.
How can a man I met so recently bring me so much pain simply by not being mine?
I’ve been single most of my adult life. I’ve been independent. And most often, I prefer it that way. I don’t need anyone. It’s not like I want Aubree in my space twenty-four-seven. Or Seraphina, or Tim, or even sweet little Mia.
But when loneliness comes, I don’t want just anybody in my space to help ease it. It’sArcherI bleed for. It’s his acceptance I ache for.
It’s his unconditional love—promised, then taken away—I yearn for.
Common sense says I have to let our romance go. Remain friends. Keep him in my life and hope we can still somewhat get along.
But matters of the heart so rarely align with what makes sense.
Telephones ring across the floor as nightshift technicians go about their work, and new dead bodies are rolled in. Cops wander through. Interns follow their mentors like harried puppies. Reports sit on my desk. Resumes, as I hope to replace the annoying Doctor Kernicke, now that an autopsy room remains unused. I have a billion tasks to complete when I get back to the office tomorrow.
I also have messages from the arrogant Detective Fox. And nagging texts from Aubree, begging me to sprint down to Lori’s and snag my dress before the shop closes. I have emails from the mayor, asking me to reconsider my plans tonight.
And still, I stand at my window, peering out at the city I now call home.
The skyline is dark, but electricity illuminates every home and office building for miles around. Copeland is not at all like New York City… The people are different, the pace is different. The dead, those who come to us naturally, and those whose penises have been flayed, even feel different.
My old job awaits me; another message in my inbox.
But I don’t want it. I don’t want to leave. And I don’t want to run away from what, I feel with my heart and soul, is my calling.
“Doctor Mayet?”
Slowly turning from my breathtaking view of the city, I glance across to my office door and find Doctor Patten, ‘the Mayet of night-shift,’ according to Aubree, waiting for me with her hands in her pockets.
“You asked for a meeting?”
“I did.” Stepping away from the window and circling to sit behind my desk, I extend a hand toward my visitor chair and wait as she follows my unspoken thoughts. “It’s good that we can finally take a minute to talk.”
“Are we…” Fidgeting, Patten crosses one leg over the other and looks around my office. “Is this one of those meetings where you think you’re shaking a department up for good reasons, but what you’re actually doing is disrupting a system that works?”
Soft laughter works along my throat. “Doesthe system work, Doctor? I’ve been here since mid-December, yet this is the first time we’ve had a chance to stop and chat.”
“Because we’re busy,” she answers nervously. “Everyone is busy, and since I didn’t think anything was broken on our shift, I felt no need to discuss fixes.”
“How are things on night-shift?” Leaning back in my chair, I study the woman with golden blonde hair and glasses thick enough to make a middle-schooler tease. “Is everything good?”
“Are you clearing out unproductive staff?” she asks instead. “We heard about Doctor Kernicke, so it’s not like—”
“Do you have unproductive staff?” I counter. “If so, why are they unproductive?”
“Doctor Mayet.” She shoves to her feet, passionate about her place and her team’s longevity at the George Stanley. “I understand it’s your job to come in here and make this building better. I understand Doctor Chant was…” She gently clears her throat. “Lackluster. And that Doctor Kernicke wasn’t very kind, but—”
“Doctor Chant left of her own accord,” I insert, answering her passion with calm. Her battle-readiness with neutrality. “Doctor Kernicke was belligerent, sexist, and downright incompetent. He was never going to be happy here unless he was the chief, and he sure as hell would never settle as second fiddle to a woman.”
“But Doctor Chant—”
