"Steph, its time."
She stood, her knees weak, her hands shaking. It had been days since she admitted herself to the clinic and still, she saw his face every time she closed her eyes and often with her eyes wide open. Now, the moment of truth had come upon her and she didn't think she was ready.
"Come on, dear," said the aide. "He's waiting."
"Is it really him?" she asked in a voice she didn't recognize, high pitched and tremulous. She couldn't see him, face to face, in this condition.
"Yes, dear."
Steph followed the woman from her room into the long carpeted hall. There was no stimulation here, nothing to remind the clinic's residents of a hospital where they might encounter memories of those other hospitals in Mexico, Buenos Aires, Chile, Spain, or that hospital where she first saw him, that one in Philadelphia.
The aide stopped in front of a white door, opened it and motioned for Steph to enter.
"You'll do fine, dear," she said, then gently closed the door.
Steph looked at the warm room, decorated in dark woods, its walls lined with books. She noticed a familiar title, The Sparrow, and started towards it, then stopped as the door opened again.
He had arrived.
Her hands fell to her sides. Her breath stopped and she felt heat rise from some inner core into her face until she thought flames would burst from the top of her head. He smiled and she grabbed the back of a leather armchair to keep from hitting the floor.
"Please," he said, (yes, please, in that soft accented tone), "sit down and breathe."
She lowered her body into the chair awkwardly, sliding over one arm so that she fell back, ending with one leg hanging over the arm's edge. This isn't happening, she told herself, and quickly tried to find a more civilized sitting position.
"Breathe," he said again, gently, while he watched her with a smile that came forward out of the depth of his dark eyes. He moved to the other chair and sat, a single graceful movement that mocked her attempts to cover clumsiness.
With great effort, she pulled in a long breath.
"Good," he said, and sat back, crossing his hands on his lap. "Now, I understand you have something to tell me."
"Yes," she croaked. "I, uh, um, well, I." She coughed to shake herself in hopes of knocking some sense back into her brain. It didn't work.She blurted, "I saw you at that hospital in Philadelphia. I saw you crying."
"That was years ago," he said, and his smile disappeared.
"Oh, but it feels like just moments ago. I followed you to your flat. I've rented the one in the building across the street, the one directly across from yours, so I could watch you."
He frowned. "The one where that couple was murdered?"
"I've never needed anyone in my life," she continued, unable to stop once the confession began, "but, I need you. I've seen the way you care for your friends, the way you hurt while you help them through their pain. I want you to hold me the way you hold them. Kiss me like you kiss them, but more. I love you, Miguel. Love me."
"You live in the flat across the street where that couple was murdered?"
"I'd do anything to be with you," she said, her voice hoarse now as her pent-up desires came forward. She envisioned her hands running through his thick dark hair. "I want to make love to you right now. Right here."
He stared at his now clenched hands, and then slowly looked up at her. "Steph, don't you know that I'm gay?"
She sat back as if shot. "What?"
"You didn't know?"
She looked at him closely. His gentle eyes now held mistrust, and maybe a touch of fear. "Gay? Oh, um, sure, I knew." She straightened in the chair, sat forward and watched him sit back, as if he thought she might hurt him. "Of course, but, um, well, we can still be friends, can't we?"
He nodded uncertainly and she wondered why he seemed so afraid.
"So, tell me," he said. "When exactly did you move into the flat across from mine?"
"Two years ago," she said, feeling foolish, yet still wanting those hands to reach towards hers, those lips to touch hers. "I read about the murders in the paper, and, well I didn't want to think that I took advantage of someone else's misfortune, but I called the realtor right away and arranged to rent the place."
His eyes brightened. "Where were you when it happened," he asked, "when you heard about the murders?"
Even that word, murders, sounded beautiful from his mouth.
"I was in San Francisco," she said, "but I knew the address. I'd been back to Philadelphia many times, to look for a job so I could be near you. Oh, Miguel, I feel so foolish, but I can't help it, I want you."
"You were stalking me," he said, but he no longer seemed afraid.
She nodded and dropped her chin to her chest.
He smiled then, that smile he gave his sick friends. "I am going to tell Dr. Leal that you need more therapy." He stood, leaned toward her and took her hands. "And, maybe, yes, we can be friends." Then he kissed her forehead and left the room.
She sighed. He'd kissed her for the first time. Maybe it wouldn't be the last.
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