2
lbows.
Looks like a damned butcher, thought Bart.
"Bart, I want you to reconsider the anesthetic. I think you ought to be out for this one, completely out." The doctor's voice became a shade less professional. "I don't tell you how to run your perception experiments, I think you ought to let me judge what's best in the surgical area."
"No," Bart whispered hoarsely. It was hell squeezing the words out. Lifting his voice these days was harder than lifting a half-ton truck. "Must be conscious, able to decide." Jonas had to lean down to catch all the words. "Not going to let you take my voice while I'm unconscious ... helpless ..."
Dr. Morton shook his head. "You're the boss."
"How soon?"
"Twenty minutes." The professional tone became pronounced again. "Your wife's outside waiting to see you. Don't get emotional, I don't want your endocrine system in an uproar." The doctor stepped out into the corridor.
* * * * *
Emotional. He mustn't think about it. He might weaken, consent to linger on, an invalid, just to be with Vivian a few extra years. Extra years of indignities calculated to twist the man-woman relationship into an ugly distortion. How romantic it would be, he and Vivian locked in an embrace, the silky softness of her hair falling across his arm, the pressure of her fingers on his back. And then, instead of placing his mouth against her ear and whispering the familiar intimacies, he would switch on the light, disengage himself so that he could whip out a pad and pencil and ...
His heart skipped at the sound pattern of high heels on the corridor. Vivian, Vivian. Her perfume pricked his senses and it took effort to shut out the emotional response. "Remember the need for an alternate plan," he reminded himself fiercely and then looked up into his wife's clear green eyes. Without a word she bent down and lay her face next to his. He was struck with the warmth of her. He gently pushed her head away. "Vi." (My Lord, his eyes were wet ... what a schoolboy