Pain

Blair has been treating me with kid gloves since I got out of the hospital.   I think the weeks under psychiatric evaluation were harder on him than on me.  When a cop kills a suspect, there is counseling involved.  When that same cop kills one man and critically injures two others with his bare hands while nearly bleeding to death from wounds sustained during a rape/murder attempt, more drastic measures are taken.

I don't want Blair's kindness.  I don't want his pity.  Least of all, I don't want his fear.  I want him to make me forget other mens' hands on my body.

I survived.  Did we?

"It's your turn to cook dinner."

I turn from surveying my city and face Blair.

"What?"

"It's your turn to cook dinner.  I've cooked every night since you've been home and, frankly, I'm sick of my own cooking.  How about some pasta with that fresh tomato and basil sauce you do so well?"

I come in from the balcony.  Blair hasn't asked me to cook in two weeks.

Hope rises.  Perhaps tonight he will touch me.  Not like the injured friend/roommate he's been helping convalesce, but something more.

I feel his hand on mine as I start into the kitchen.  I stop to look into his eyes.

"I've been waiting for you," he whispers and I know.

Blair isn't being kind.   The only pity is my own.  I am the one who is afraid.

I reach out to touch.

March 4, 2002

For Mary Ellen