Addenda 2
Sunday was basically uneventful — I was called in to cover for Dr. X, one of the senior assistant MEs whose wife was at the get this thing out of me now stage of pregnancy went into labor that morning. (A healthy little girl, eight pounds, ten ounces, for the record.) Fortunately, he had the time to actually finish sewing before he had to book it. Spent the rest of the day prepping his samples for analysis, transcribing his dictation, and being periodically harassed by my sister for more details RE McDreamy, specifically if he was married and, if not, if this Christmas thing was going to be an actual date-date or a group dinner deal and reminding me to ask if I could bring anything because of course she knew I had already forgotten to do that.
McDreamy is not, to my knowledge, married. Or, at the very least, he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. I’m not particularly up on the office gossip regarding the topic, if there even is any — “is the hot bereavement counselor married?” not being the sort of question you ask the deiners on a slow Sunday afternoon in the morgue. So I instead wrote a note asking if I could bring anything to the party on Christmas and departed for the day.
Monday was basically more of the same except twenty degrees colder upon leaving home in the morning. (Note to myself: warm winter jacket still not warm enough.) One of the deiners that I work with regularly asserted, when I came in with my teeth chattering and clutching a cup of local convenience store coffee, that we’re in witch’s left tit weather here in Pennsylvania right now, which led to a conversation about the endo/exothermic qualities of witch breasts. Which is about when McDreamy walked in.
Yeah, I know.
In response to my note, he let me know that it was going to be a small gathering, four or five people at most, and that he was planning to roast a real honest-to-gods Christmas goose and make an attempt at his Scottish granny’s plum pudding recipe. (It turns out that he’s only in town for Christmas this year because his parents are, in fact, going to Scotland to visit family — otherwise, he’d be in Massachusetts for the holiday.) He suggested I might want to bring an appetizer or a salad of some sort, assured me that there weren’t any strict vegans or vegetarians implacably hostile to the inclusion of eggs or cheese in their Christmas diet coming to the party, and that there was a high probability of alcoholic wassail being on hand, so if I intended to drink I should also bring an overnight bag — he’d have his guest room(s) set up for people who wanted to stay over.
Then he asked me out to dinner. Not that evening, but Tuesday, at a place in our neighborhood that I’d wandered past already, called the Abbaye. Gastropub, imported beer, superior vegetarian bar food, according to the reviews. I’d been thinking about it but there is literally nothing in the universe sadder than going to a bar by yourself because the chimay-marinated seitan cheesesteak with pomme frites sounds awesome.
I officially don’t even know.
I would also like to offer my heartfelt apologies to everyone in the Eastern Hemisphere whose rest was disturbed by a high-pitched noise at some godless hour local time — that was probably my sister squeeing when she got my text. Which is to say that I said yes and he walked back out all cheerfully and, seriously, if he’s not flirting at some low-key level I will just not know.
Remainder of the day was uneventful until late in the afternoon, when I got an email from Rin. One of her graphics wizard friends had done some magic on the picture I’d sent — it was, admittedly, still blurry and shaky but now I could definitely make out the writing: it was, very clearly, the number 4. The note included suggested that the text had distinct depth gradations and might be a carving more than something written with paint or marker. That afternoon, I went and bought a disposable digital-capable camera and a new maglite.
The Doctor Is Not In 