“Um. I was going to hop up to the hospital. Visit Commander. You … want to come?” “I don’t feel right about seeing him when he’s down. Just a personal thing. If you want to get something to eat after your visit, I can wait.” The two of them have had quite a few meals together today—after the pastrami wore off, they split a falafel at Janet’s Middle Eastern, all the while cracking up about the skinny flatiron building a block away that had a worn-out sign saying TERMINAL LUNCH. For a while it had been Brad’s Terminal Lunch. Then Rita’s Terminal Lunch. Truth is, dinner with company sounds good. “You could eat as late as nine?” “Sure.” He brightens. So, the nut of it is, she runs home, showers, changes into a new pair of linen pants she’s been eager to wear and a lacy stretch top, zips over to the hospital, arriving at five minutes after eight. Through the maze of hallways, familiar now, she speeds toward the elevator that takes her up to his room. Marina is there.
