He rests against the door jamb, admiring her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Blonde hair, blue eyes, graceful. How did he get so lucky?
She doesn’t sense him though, focused instead on the task at hand: the meticulous cleaning of her surgical instruments.
She then removes her flimsy, blood-soaked apron, and stuffs it into a black garbage bag along with a bloody pair of cheap plastic gloves.
Lastly, she secures the trash bag, setting it down alongside a small green plastic cooler.
“We good,” he finally asks.
If he tried to startle her, it didn’t work.
“We are,” she answers.
The Weekday One Hundred 