“Florence and the Machine. Do you like it?” “You’re fixated on death.” “I’m a surgeon,” he said, not looking up from where he was dicing vegetables. I shook my head. “You’re a surgeon because you have a fixation on death.” He didn’t say anything, but slightly hesitated as he cut into a zucchini—barely noticeable, but my eyes caught mostly everything. “We all do don’t we? We are consumed with our own mortality. Some people eat right and exercise to preserve their lives, others drink and do drugs daring fate to take theirs, and then there are the floaters—the ones who try to ignore their
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