“What happened to your clothes?”
“My pants,” said Mark in a wry voice, “are apparently still on the airplane. Along with my shirt.”
Georgia nodded, recognizing the disposable garments common to medical clinics everywhere. “Are they releasing you?”
“They weren’t keen on the idea, but as I’m obviously human again, I don’t see how they can stop me. I’d love to figure out what happened to my bags so I can get out of these ridiculous paper scrubs before I endure another social catastrophe. And I’ve missed my train.”
Georgia had missed her train too, of course, but it seemed rude to bring it up. And she was not in a hurry, anyway; she didn’t have to be at the conference until the following day. “I’ll go with you to the baggage claim area before I catch my train,” she said.
After Mark had been formally discharged, they made their way through the wide corridors to the baggage claim, to a room to change and freshen up, and then toward the regional Bahnhof—train station—conveniently located within the airport terminal via a bunch of long connectors.
“I’d like to pay for your ticket,” Mark said. “I bet you missed your train because of me.”
“Oh, you don’t need—”
He waved aside her protestations. “It’s the least I can do. Plus, I have an ulterior motive: maybe I can wait with you. Where are you headed?”
A brisk group of backpackers surged around them on both sides, isolating them in a little air pocket of their own. “Amsterdam,” she said.
“Really?” A delighted smile. “I live there.” He bounded toward the ticket counter, each of his strides equaling two of a normal human’s. She trailed him, only to discover the next open train to Amsterdam didn’t leave for another four hours.
Mark turned to her, guilt etching across his smile. “Ugh,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
He nodded, shoulders slumping, before moving to the next counter to rebook the seats. He returned in a few moments looking more cheerful. “This way,” he said.
“This way to what?”
“There’s a fine airport bar in this direction. I have you pegged as a bourbon drinker.”
“I am,” she said, impressed, “but I don’t think you should be drinking.”
His grin returned to full wattage. “At least let me buy you breakfast.”
* * *
—
The cafe, of course, was modern in design: backless leather stools, bright pools of light spilling onto blocky white tables, an ascetic-appearing tile floor. Georgia held her glass aloft and considered the swirl of caramel-colored bourbon. Having grown up in Kentucky with her father, a bona fide genius and a stern bourbon aficionado, she took drinking seriously. This was good stuff; she was impressed at the depth of this little bar’s bourbon reserves. If someone had told her yesterday she’d be toasting with a shot of Weller in a random airport bar with a recovering poisoned man after saving his life on an airplane—well, she could not quite imagine what her reaction would have been. Delight? Amazement? Confusion?
If Mark’s face was anything to judge by, he was similarly taken aback by the turn of events. Catching her studying him, he tilted his water in her direction. “Cheers,” he offered. “Or maybe I should say ‘prost.’”
“Proost,” she said agreeably.
“This has to be one of the strangest days of my life.”
“Mine too.”
“Okay,” he said. He took a giant swig of his water, so she downed a correspondingly large swig of her bourbon. Maybe not the best idea, but she’d earned it.
The Weller tasted fabulous; smooth and warm, with an ass-kicking little jolt at the end, even better than the surprisingly good pastry she’d ordered along with it. This was airport food? “I misspoke a bit when I said I had a question,” Mark was saying. “I’ve got several, actually, and I’m ashamed I’m just now asking the first one, given that you rescued me on the plane.” He paused.
“Proceed.”
“This is awkward, but it’s only going to get worse as time goes on.”
“With a buildup like that, you’ve definitely got my attention.”
Mark’s clear eyes shone with something that looked suspiciously like mirth. “I realized I already know a lot about you—you’re a doctor, you’re a bookworm and a science geek, you’re a bit of a rogue but you’re lonely, you—”
“Whoa,” she interrupted. “Hold up. Obviously you’re aware I’m a doctor, but how do you know those other things?”
“I’m paying attention. You have not one but two novels and a biography sticking out of your shoulder bag. Only a dedicated book junkie would carry that much weight around.”
“Okay.”
“The science part: the biography is Nikola Tesla, and there’s a novel by Neal Stephenson. And then there’s your tattoo.”
“You saw my tattoo? Which one?”
He nodded. “A delta. I saw it on the plane, when your pants leg rolled up a bit.” He paused, adding, “I wasn’t purposely staring at your ankles or anything.”
She must have looked dubious, because he went on. “Okay, yes. I was looking at your ankles. They’re very nice.”
“No, it’s just most people think I have a tattoo of a triangle. Or if they recognize it as a delta they think it’s a sorority thing.”
“The Greek letter delta,” he said. “The scientific and mathematical emblem of change.”
“Correct. And it’s the differential operator given by the divergence of the gradient of a function on Euclidean space.”
He stared, his mouth slightly ajar. “The Laplace operator.”
Her turn to be impressed; she’d never met anyone who didn’t look at her strangely if she started babbling math jargon, let alone anyone who could actually comprehend what she was talking about. “You know about the Laplace operator?”
“I was a math major; how do you know about the Laplace operator?”
“My father was a college math professor. So, yes, I have a lot of reasons for liking the delta symbol. What about the rest of it?”
“The rest of the Greek alphabet?”
“No, the rest of what you said.” She waited, embarrassed, but he still looked puzzled. “That I’m a rogue or whatever.”