“Are you all right, Sanj?” I stroked his clammy forehead. The Mütter Museum housed the country’s widest collection of “human medical anomalies.” I’d suggested a visit, a seemingly generous overture toward Sanjay’s profession. Between the mummified Siamese twins and eighteenth-century umbilical cords, Sanjay mentioned feeling queasy. I’d chalked it up to the Cheez Whiz he’d liberally applied to his tempeh “steak” (being a devout Hindu, he didn’t touch meat). Something about the jarred and jellied embryos sent him over the edge. Next thing I knew, he was bulldozing through a crowd of enthralled children.

“It’s not your fault, Sheila. I should have told you about my issues. In med school, I basically died every time I had to touch a cadaver. It was awful. Why do you think I opted for radiology? I could never deal with blood, needles, tissue . . .” He shuddered, his voice trailing off.

“Sanjay, it’s no big—”

“Sheila, you can’t—CANNOT—tell anyone about this. Nobody likes a squeamish doctor. It is really really embarrassing, OK?” With his bulging eyes and freckles of crusty vomit on his chin, Sanjay bore a remarkable resemblance to one of the museum’s exhibits.

“You can’t be serious, Sanj. That’s ridiculous. Why do you care? You’re a great radiologist and that’s what matters, right? I mean, I can’t stand sitting around discussing the Supreme Court. And I’m not embarrassed to say it out loud.”

“So, you’d walk into a pack of law clerks and tell them talking about recent court decisions made you sick?” He asked pointedly.

“OK. I’ll shut my trap.”

“Sheila, that means you can’t tell your parents,” he ordered. “Your mom will tell every uncle and aunty this side of Madras.”

Just then, a horde of children spilled out of the museum, swinging shiny spoils of gift shop victory. One marched past Sanjay waving a bloodied hook. He retched again.

“The place sells vaginal speculums?” He wiped his mouth and shook his head, embarrassment transforming into disdain. In fact, Sanjay cheered up only when he hopped into his Mercedes that Sunday afternoon to head back to Reston.

It had been an unusually sedate Monday, the morning free from medievalism, staring, and (wrong) name-calling. I had just about polished off my toilet lunch when the silence was broken.

“Sheera! Sheera! We lost! We lost! Where is she? Where is She-She-la?”

I rinsed baba ghanoush remnants from my hands and cautiously emerged from the bathroom. To my left was the judge, who’d cornered Evan. Cowering in her presence, Evan—who had to be at least six feet tall—looked dwarfish. Could it be that the judge moonlighted as a human-shrinking machine? Evan strained to lift his arm, pointed in my direction, and fled.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. Wasn’t it obvious? “Never mind, now. We lost.” She jumped slightly. “We lost it.”