Page 52 of Second Alarm
She comes in in her station blues, because she's been on a call with Gemma — a bad one, I heard it on the scanner, a domestic where the wife ended up fine but the husband ended up arrested — and she has the specific exhaustion of a woman who's just finished a call that reminded her why she does the job. She doesn't say hello. She walks to the fridge, opens it, and stands there.
"What do you want."
"Nothing. I don't know. Food."
"There's roast beef. Left side, second shelf, top container."
She gets it and makes herself a sandwich with the methodical thoroughness of a woman operating mostly on reflex, not paying attention to what she's assembling. She eats half of it at the counter, leaning over the plate, and drinks water straight from her cupped hand at the tap. Then she turns around and leans back against the counter.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Harrison's sandwiches." She tilts her head toward the container.
"Yeah. Therapeutic."
She puts her plate in the sink, and I take it, rinse it, set it in the rack without comment. She doesn't move away. She stands two inches from my shoulder, forearms on the counter, eyes on her hands.
"Do you want coffee? Tea?"
"No. Neither."
"Okay."
"Ty."
"Yeah."
A beat. "I'm really tired."
"I know."
"The call was — "
"I heard it on the scanner."
"Yeah." She exhales through her nose. "You okay?"
"I'm good. You okay?"
"No."
"Okay."
She laughs — short, not quite real, the laugh of a person who's too tired to cry. She rubs her face with her hand.
"Ty."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to say something, and I want you to not make a thing out of it." She's still looking at her hands.
"Okay."
"I miss you."
I stop moving.
