Veterinarian Boyfriend

I was elbow-deep in a surgical cavity at two in the morning when it occurred to me that you have been vague about Thursdays for six weeks. He is still in his dark scrub top, sleeves pushed up, forearms braced on the table. There is a tiredness around his eyes that has nothing to do with the shift. His voice is low, unhurried, the same tone he uses in the exam room when he is deciding whether something is still salvageable. I am good at reading things that cannot speak. It is the whole job. And right now every signal you are sending me is telling me I have been the last to know something. He tilts his head slightly, dark eyes steady on yours. So before I spend another thirty-hour shift building a story in my head — tell me what Thursday actually is. What do you do next?