“Whatever,” Yuri says. “How long is she in for today?”
“Not sure. They give her an estimated amount of time she’ll be in there, but it’s hardly ever accurate.”
“What are you going to do while you wait?”
“I was going to go into the office and catch up on some paperwork,” I tell her. “I’ve kind of been lagging for the last week or so.”
“Yeah, I noticed that you really slowed down after Grace had that seizure.”
“What’s your point?”
“I just think that a doctor should keep their head in the game for all their patients,” she says. “Not just the ones they’re sticking their meat in during business hours.”
“What the hell is your problem?”
Yuri stands and walks over to her desk. She opens up the top drawer and puts her vaporizer inside. “You’ve got work to do,” she says. “I’m your assistant, so I should probably be doing some work, too.”
“You’re not on the clock,” I tell her.
“Call it an early birthday present,” Yuri says.
“Seriously, I can’t have you working when you’re not on the clock. Hospital policy is very clear on that,” I tell her, and I hear her response before she even says it.
“Hospital policy is pretty clear on a lot of things,” she says.
“Go home, Yuri,” I tell her. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“It doesn’t really matter where you go,” I tell her. “You’re not on the clock. Go wherever.”
“What happened to you?” she asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“You used to be so caring, so on top of everything. I never thought I would say this, but I think I liked you better when you were with Little Miss Fake Tits,” Yuri says.
I’m really starting to lose my patience, but it does occur to me that Yuri might simply be having a bad day.
“Have you been exercising?” I ask her.
“Sometimes,” she says. “When I feel like doing it and I’m not busy with something else. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” I tell her. “You know, it’s best to be consistent, especially with your core exercises.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“No, but I am your boss and your friend.”
“Isn’t that just the thing to melt your heart into a little puddle at your feet,” she mocks. “Oh, I get it. You think I’m being irrational, and if I’m being irrational, it’s probably something to do with my Huntington’s. Am I in the ballpark?”
I open my mouth, but don’t get a chance to answer her.
“You know, that’s right up there with asking a woman if she’s on her period. It’s just plain rude and it makes you look like a total fucking idiot,” she says.
“If that’s not going on,” I start, “then what the hell is your problem today?”
“I’m on my period,” she says. “Okay, really, I’m not, but you were nice and ready to believe that, weren’t you?”