The Technician

It was a cloudy day by a worn picnic table when the two had met. They had held eye contact when she asked for a cigarette, sizing each other up. She wore a lab coat, black slacks. Her blonde hair with a slight gray streak touched the edges of ruby red lipstick and a seductive smile He furrowed his brow, his cigarette bopping appraisingly in his mouth Finally he relented, pulling the pack from a wrapped up seafoam green sleeve. They sat down next to each other, the man and woman both visibly relaxing. After the first exhale they locked eyes: They both knew it, they could smell the alcohol on each other's breath.


It would not be the first time they smelled each other's breath, and later that night they would taste it. Their breath would intermingle, heavy with the sour, ashy taste of smoke and fumes of alcohol. The night had started at a bar close to his apartment (he did not want to go to the ones close to the hospital, he knew he would be seen) and had ended in his bedroom. They had exchanged pleasantries, job descriptions, the usual bullshit. As the liquor flowed the distance between them closed and loud stories that nearly violated privacy policies would be told with roars of laughter and shrieks of delight. They were vigilant to the side glances they would receive (as they were both used to) and would pay their tabs and stumble out, their welcome worn out. The bartender would sigh as they stumbled out in the direction of the liquor store, then to his apartment where they would share war stories and comfort in each other's bodies. The next morning she would sit on the edge of his bed while he pretended to sleep, both naked physically in regret. At work they would not make eye contact.

And that was how it started, every week would be the same routine: She would ask for a cigarette and later that night they would get liquored up and naked, followed by a coldness the next day.

Gradually she started staying over more frequently. They didn't always drink, but it would always be wordlessly physical until the next morning. Slowly it started to happen, she began to linger in the mornings and he would no longer pretend to be asleep. They would hold each other and talk about things besides work, aspirations, dreams, the future and the past. Kisses would be exchanged that had emotion behind them that had tenderness instead of lust, hands would be laced together, then she would leave. One day she bumped into him at work, telling him he had forgotten something and handing him a bag. It did not contain the usual linen, rather a clean pair of slacks, a lab coat and stethoscope. He understood the assignment, and the next day the spare key he had placed on the nightstand next to her side of the bed had disappeared along with her and the clean bag of clothes.

That was how it started, and while the apartment remained devoid of her possessions (he had actually never been to her place) he always made sure she had clean clothes. He had quietly begun to stock the fridge with her favorite mixers, a bottle of her favorite vodka and some of her favorite snacks. In return on the days their shifts did not intersect he would find sealed meals made out of whatever sparse food he had or whatever she brought.

They lived amiably in their nest, they would still go out once or twice a week. As time went on she would stay home more, reading a book with a pad and pen next to her as she sipped water. He didn't care, he would go out by himself. He would return later that night and they would have sex, but she didn't always make eye contact, she didn't seem as into it. After two weeks of this he began to notice her less and less, she would be gone before he woke up, but she still came around every so often. One night during a night of sex she yelled at him to stop and get off him. He quickly did as he was told, rolling off, stunned at her blank expression staring at the ceiling. He sat on the bed feeling guilty, but also angry. He felt dirty, he blamed her for it. He stared at his hands when he felt a gentle, warm hand on her back. He heard a whisper, "Have you ever considered not drinking anymore?" He got up in a huff, pulled sheets from the linen closet and slept on the couch.

The next morning she was gone, so were her clothes, the study guides, the pad and the books. The only thing that remained was the key that he had given her. He didn't care, she had no right to tell him how to live his life and they both knew it. At work it fell into the same routine, they did not talk or make eye contact as usual. However now there was a coldness behind her eyes.