Philip had to scram tonight. He found out a patient had a 5-hour consecutive bp of 60 that he wasn't notified of until 1:10 am. This was our exchange:
(Rustling and scrambling sounds as Philip takes out his retainer, puts in his contacts and puts on clothes. Incoherent mumbling and curses).
Me: So, you have to go back in?
Philip: Yeah. I'm going to be there all night. This is bad. Like, this is really bad. I can't believe no one called me. This is really, really bad.
Me: Okay. I love you.
Philip: I love you, too (flustered noises, harumphing, backpack gathering).
Me: Uh, Philip, baby?
Me: Did you eat the last biscuit?
Me: There was one biscuit left. Did you eat it?
Philip: A biscuit? Yeah. For dinner. I ate it.
Me: Oh, okay. Bye. Be careful.
I can't believe I escaped with all my body parts and faculties intact. I braved a dangerous challenge. It was like asking a lion "Hey, I'm waving my juicy, meaty human hand around like catnip before your ridiculously strong jaws. Are you going to eat it?" And then the lion politely cedes "Why yes, I am," giving you just enough time to remove the precarious hand. On the one hand (no pun intended) I am glad to know not only what happened to the biscuit, but that I survived the interrrogation. And on the other hand (again, no pun intended), I feel guilty for even asking in the first place.
Those biscuits were really good, though. Ask Philip. He ate the last one.