At the thought of her leaving him for good, something like a dull crosscut saw hacked across his diaphragm, and he dropped his forkful of potato salad.
Back at his office, he diluted 30 cc of pure grain alcohol with water and swallowed it. Some of the distress and anxiety symptoms were relieved, and he bent determinedly to his work.
When her distinctive steps finally came through the door, he refused to raise his head from the binocular microscope. "How are they making out over there?" he mumbled.
"It's slow," she said, dropping her notes on his desk. "They're halfway through the sulfas so far. No results yet."
Relief at having her near him again was so great, it was almost frightening. But he gained equal pleasure from finding his self-control adequate to keep from raising his head and devouring her with his eyes.
"Sylvester," her voice came from behind his stool, "if you don't mind, I'd rather not go over there again."
"Why not?"
Her voice was strangely soft. "Because I—I missed...."
At that instant, her hand rested on his shoulder and it sent a charge of high voltage through him. He stiffened.