"I'm thirty-six."
"Perfect," Suzanne said. Oliver sipped his tea. The room was comfortable—clean and furnished simply.
"Leaving isn't going to get any easier," he said, a few minutes later.
Suzanne got to her feet quickly. "I know." Oliver took another swallow of tea and put his mug down slowly. He stood. Suzanne came into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder. He buried his face in her hair, breathed deeply, and squeezed her. Her hair smelled of mint.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll do whatever you want." He squeezed her again in response and left, not trusting himself to look back.
He couldn't go home. He drove into the city and had a Guinness at Deweys. He called Jennifer and said that he needed strong drink after the non-alcoholic Christmas party and that he'd be back soon with a pizza.
Richard came in, and Oliver ordered another pint. "What's your definition of home?" Oliver asked him.
"Home is where you're most yourself," Richard said without hesitating.
He looked comfortably around the bar.
"Ah," Oliver said. "Not necessarily where you sleep, then."
Richard raised his eyebrows. "Not necessarily. I have two homes—at the lab and right here."