Spencer
"Spence?"I had been turning the pages of a six month old copy of The New Yorker. My colleague and friend, Dr. Elizabeth Simmons, stands before me, her hands fisted in the pockets of her white lab coat. She is smiling, but I'm not fooled.
"What is it?"I ask,standing and nervously rolling the magazine into a tube,which I proceed to tap against the side of one thigh.
"Come on back. Zoe's getting dressed." Liz nods to the sole other patient in the waiting room."I'll be with you in a few minutes," she promises, then holds the door for me that leads to the inner sanctum of her practice. We walk down a long hall, past examining rooms, some open and empty, others with their doors shut, signaling occupancy. Zoe is in one of them and I am tempted to try each door until I find my wife. Instead I follow Liz into her office.
"Have a seat," she says."I'll get Zoe."
Before I can say anything,she's gone,closing the office door behind her with a soft click. I hear the murmur ...
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