Night Shift Privilege

The clock on the break room wall said 11:40 when Burt finished mopping the treatment room floor. It had been a slow Tuesday night at the clinic, which was fine by him. One cat with an upset stomach, one dog with a torn nail, and six boarders sleeping in the kennels. So far, the night had consisted of that.

(Well, almost the whole night. There was still the thing with Michael, but that came later.)

Becca was at the front desk finishing up the paperwork, her feet kicked out of her sneakers and resting on a chair across from her. She was thirty-three, two years younger than Burt, and she still looked the same as the day he met her at Dave and Vanessa's party, dark hair pulled back in whatever was handy, usually a clip she'd bought at a gas station. She worked reception three days a week and spent the other days at the community garden plot she fought with like it owed her money.

Burt leaned the mop against the wall and came out front. "Hey. Michael's coming by after his show!"

Becca looked up from the clipboard. "Tonight? I thought that was maybe Friday."

"He said the show ends at eleven and the theater's fifteen minutes from here. So, like, midnight-ish." Burt wiped his hands on his jeans. "He's in town for the week doing that guest thing with the ballet company, and this is the only night that works."

Becca put the clipboard down. She had been quiet about this for a few days and Burt knew better than to push. They had been married five years and he had learned that she needed to turn things over in her head a couple of times before she said yes to anything, from a new couch to a new car to, apparently, this.

"Okay," she said. "Okay, yeah. If he's still good with it."

"He asked me twice if I was sure. I'm pretty sure he's sure."

She laughed at that, which was a good sign. The two of them had been talking about this fantasy for months, Burt watching while another man touched her, and it had gone from a bedroom-talk thing to an actual conversation with actual details, which surprised both of them. The watching part was the whole point for Burt. He had tried to explain it once and mostly managed to say "I don't know, I just want to see" about six times before Becca told him to stop talking and eat his dinner.

Michael had been the obvious choice when they finally got serious about it. He was Burt's old college roommate, thirty-five now, a professional dancer, and single, and he had met Becca years ago at that same party crowd. Nobody had any weird history. He'd laughed when Burt brought it up on the phone, then gone quiet, then said, "Wait, seriously?" and then said yes, seriously, if Becca seriously wanted it.

She seriously wanted it, she'd told Burt that morning, though she'd also told him her hands were shaking a little when she said it, which he thought was fair.

* * *

At 12:15 the headlights swept across the front windows and Michael's rental pulled into the empty lot. Becca was sitting on the edge of the reception desk with her shoes back on, and Burt watched her stand up and smooth her shirt twice, which she only did when she was nervous.

Michael came in with a gym bag over his shoulder, tall and loose-limbed the way dancers are, hair still damp from the show. "Man, this place smells like bleach and dog," he said, grinning.

"That's the perfume of quality medicine," Burt said, and hugged him. Michael turned and hugged Becca too, quick and friendly, nothing sneaky about it, and said, "Hey, Becca. You look good. Last time I saw you was what, that barbecue?"

"Three years ago," she said. "You brought that terrible potato salad."

"It was not terrible, it was ambitious."

Burt gave him the tour because there was nothing else to do with the nervous energy. Treatment room, x-ray machine, the kennels where a fat orange cat named Douglas watched them from the corner cage with deep suspicion. Michael looked at everything and asked dumb questions on purpose, like "do you ever operate on hamsters," and Burt said yes, twice, and both hamsters lived, and Michael said that was a better record than most people he knew.

The whole time, all three of them knew what the visit was really for, and nobody said it, and the not saying it was almost louder than saying it. Becca trailed a few steps behind them, and when Burt glanced back she was watching Michael's hands as he gestured, and she caught Burt watching her and made a face like, what, and he just grinned and kept walking.

They ended up back in the break room. Burt dug three cold sodas out of the little fridge because nobody drank on this kind of night, they'd agreed on that weeks ago, everyone clear-headed or nothing at all. Michael stretched out in one of the plastic chairs with his legs stuck way out, which he could do because the man was all legs.

"So how does this work, logistically?" he asked. "Do you guys have, like, rules? A playbook?"

Burt looked at Becca and she nodded at him, so he said it out loud for the third time in his life. "You and her. I watch. That's it. Anything she wants to stop, we stop, no questions, no hard feelings. Anything I want to stop, same thing. And you use protection, obviously."

"Obviously," Michael said. He looked at Becca. "And you? You're actually good with this? Because I've known Burt for fifteen years and I know for a fact he can't keep a poker face, so if you're doing this just to make him happy, I'll know."

Becca laughed, and Burt saw some of the nervousness go out of her shoulders. "No, it's mine too. I've been curious about the being-watched part for a while now. He thinks he came up with this idea. He did not."

"She's had a list," Burt said. "There were bullet points."

"There were not bullet points."

"There was a note on the fridge."

Michael raised both hands. "Okay, okay. So we're all in. I just want to say, this is the weirdest favor anybody's ever asked me, and also the nicest."

Becca finished her soda and set the can down with a click. "Well. It's almost one. Doug the cat's asleep. Nobody's coming in until six unless something's on fire." She looked at Burt, then at Michael, and her voice went a little quieter. "So. Do you guys want to go back to the treatment room? There's an exam table in there, and a light, and, um. Yeah."

Michael looked at Burt, and Burt nodded, and his heart was pounding but in a good way, the way it did on the first drop of a roller coaster.

"Lead the way," Michael said.

Becca got up first, and Burt followed the two of them down the hallway, past the kennels where Douglas opened one eye, evaluated the situation, and went back to sleep, which was honestly the sanest reaction of the night so far.

The treatment room light was on its brightest setting, which Becca fixed right away by pulling the chain twice so it went soft and yellow. The exam table sat in the middle with its paper roll, and Burt dragged one of the rolling stools over to the wall for himself, because he was going to be sitting and watching and that was the entire arrangement.

Except now that they were all standing in the room, nobody moved. Michael looked at the exam table. Becca looked at Michael. Burt looked at both of them and thought, wow, this is the part nobody writes bullet points about.

"Okay, this is weird," Becca announced. "We need, like, a ramp. An on-ramp."

"Truth or dare," Burt said, before he could think about it.

Both of them turned to stare at him.

"Seriously?" Michael said. "You want to play truth or dare? In a veterinary clinic? At one in the morning?"

"It works! It's a ramp. Nobody has to decide anything big, you just answer a question or do a dumb thing, and then somehow it's two hours later and everybody's relaxed." Burt shrugged. "It worked at Dave's party in sophomore year."

"That party ended with you asleep in a laundry hamper," Michael said.

"A clean hamper, thank you."

Becca was already laughing, and Burt felt the room loosen up about ten percent, which at this point was worth a lot. "I'm in," she said. "Michael, you go first."

"Fine. Becca, truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"How long have you actually wanted to do this?"

She didn't even pause, which Burt appreciated. "Since about two years ago. There was a dream. I'm not describing the dream. Next question."

"See, now I need to know," Michael said.

"You don't. Dare me instead." She pointed at him. "Dare."

Michael thought about it for maybe one second. "Kiss me."

Burt had agreed to this in advance, of course, it was the whole point, but