“Mark Vincent, taking a sick day?”
“Sure, why not?” He poured three fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to me, then poured the same in his glass, which he raised. “‘Here’s to you, here’s to me, and here’s to the space between us. One of us has to go.’” He met my eyes, a crooked grin on his lips. “‘Not you. Not me. But the space between us.’”
* * * *
January passed into February. Mark no longer was sent out of the country on various operations, although occasionally, he would visit any number of WBIS affiliates. That was part of his responsibility as Director of Interior Affairs—his promotion had become official just before Christmas and we’d spent a quiet weekend celebrating it.
Surprisingly, both months proved to be periods where I wasn’t sent out of the country either.
Or p
