“Good luck, Finn.”
“Tickle, tickle.”
“Oh.” It was a reflex. Automatic. I hadn’t even realized I’d reached out to brush the sole of his foot with my fingertip. I did it one more time, though, on purpose, “Tickle, tickle,” before his bed rolled completely out of reach. “I’ll see you after.”
Would I?
“I hope so,” Finn said.
I did, too. For one thing, I wanted to know about his bar and the music he played there. Was it a hipster bar, a country-western bar, a sports bar? Did he take requests? Was it ambient music or singalong? Why hadn’t I asked? I also needed to show him Living Single, Friends, and especially Golden Girls.
* * * *
I went up to surgery early that same afternoon. My last thought before going under and first thought upon waking from anesthesia was of Finn. He had never come back. I wondered. I worried.
“Hey. What happened to the other guy from last night? The guy with the broken arm?” I asked the recovery nurse. “Is he here?”