White mist. He tried to focus. A wall. 'Hospital,' the wall said, as did the metal bed-frame and the ceiling modules with their cold neon lights. There were beeps and when he turned his head he saw tubes and a plastic bag hanging from a rack. He closed his eyes.
Things were wrong. Where were his sounds? Why was he warm? Where were the iron bars and the pathetic light bulb? Where was his world? Opening his eyes, he saw a dark blur against the whiteness. A black face, a nurse he found out when things pulled into focus. She looked healthy and fleshy in her starched outfit. She called his name. How could she know? She did things -- then she did more things in her creaking, rustling uniform, smiling all the time. When she left she said the doctor would be coming soon.
The doctor was pink, clean and gray. He said things about undernourishment and neglect, weight loss and weakness. He smelled of aftershave. He also said things would be fine. It just needed time, he said. Then he left.
Later he felt stronger. Was it the next day? His hair had been cut, his face shaved. There was liquid food. He asked the nurse how he got there. She didn't know but would ask. When she brought tea, she said a man had delivered him at the ER after finding you in an alley, unconscious. He signed for your papers.
He thought hard, trying to hammer sense into his chaos. It must have been her driver -- 'chauffeur' she said; what was his name? She must have worried about his health. He guessed she didn't want a dead body in her cellar. Or did she care? Did he care if she did? Deep down he despised her good Samaritanism. All he felt was being disposed of. He'd become a burden.
The thought ashamed him. Maybe she was right, he wasn't worthy to even be her cellar rat. Tears welled up from his eyes.
"Are you all right, sweetie?" the nurse asked. He nodded. He was right where he belonged.
The strict rhythm of the hospital caused the return of order in his life -- a sense of cause and consequence, and a sense of time. There was morning, afternoon and evening again -- and with it a succession of days and nights. He was tested, run through scans and found weak but healthy. They made him do exercises. He started eating real food again, though he missed the special flavor he'd gotten used to. He also missed the sounds and the scents, the subtle excitement that always lurked under a layer of numb patience.
Most of all, he missed her.
Missing her wasn't a 'hollow feeling where his heart had been,' as so many romantics try to explain it. It wasn't anything physical at all -- just a constant lack of purpose, a not knowing what to do next, or why. He missed her presence, but most of all he missed waiting for her. He'd never known when she would come down to see him, but he'd always known she would, one day. And when she did, she brought her Presence, which was his anchor. And most of all: she brought her Eyes -- the two magical buoys that kept his spirit from drowning. Was he drowning now? Was he still alive?
A ringing sound pulled him out of his funk. It took him seconds to realize it was a phone -- his phone. He never knew he still had it. The ringing stopped by the time he'd turned his body enough to grab the cell. There was a voice mail message, her Voice. "Still sleeping?" it said. Excitement kicked his guts. It felt unusual to smile. He pushed her speed-button before getting afraid enough to do it. Her Voice was breathy; it invaded his ear.
"Hello?"
"Miss?" he answered. "André here."
"I see that," she said. "Why did you threaten to die on me, dumbo?"
"I'm sorry." He knew it would enrage her, but he could think of nothing else to say. He did feel sorry for letting her down.
"It won't happen again," he added. She chuckled.
"I'm sure it won't," she said. "Because I won't take you back."
Ice-cold disappointment invaded him.
"But, Miss..." he started. He couldn't find words in the chasm that opened before him.
"Forget it," she said, her Voice sweet. "You obviously aren't strong enough, honey." It was the truth, and it was as simple as overwhelming. He'd blown it. He'd broken his promise by failing her. Why take him back?
The silence dragged on while he tried to think.
"Still there?" she said. "I haven't got all day."
"Still here, Miss," he whispered. "You are right, of course. I am sorry for not being strong enough to serve you." Now her side was silent for a bit.
"It's as much my fault as yours," she then said. "I should never have encouraged you." He protested, trying to claim the blame exclusively, but she loudly spoke his name to cut him short.
"Go back to your life, please, André," she said, returning to her low, breathy voice. "Pick up where you left off."
He protested, but the line died. He cried for minutes, hiding his face in his pillow.
Two days later the doctor told him he could go home. He decided against discussing whether he had one. The nurse brought him the suitcase that was supposedly his, so he might find some clothes to wear. He found silk camisoles and satin panties, bras, garter belts and pairs of stockings. On top of them was a pink nylon apron with frilly straps.
Half an hour later the nurse asked him why he wasn't dressed and ready. He blushed deeply and shrugged, kicking the open suitcase with a dangling foot. She looked down. Then she looked up at him.
"Wrong suitcase, I guess," she said, turning. "Let me go look who mixed it up." He called her back.
"No need," he said. "It's the right suitcase. Wrong place, though." He smiled weakly. The nurse looked down and up, confused.
"But how... what will you wear?" she asked. He shrugged again.
"You keep the robe for now," she said, meaning the fluffy thing he'd been walking around in these last days. "And the slippers too, so you can walk to the cab."
He'd been at the apartment for maybe an hour when she called. He tried to sound pissed off.
"So you're home?" she asked.
"No," he answered. "You know very well this isn't home anymore." He assumed she was as surprised by his tone as he was.
"You are hurt," she said. "Damn, I should never have started this." She seemed upset, and even as pseudo-pissed off as he was, he felt ashamed.
"I wanted it myself, Miss," he said after a pause. "I loved every second."
"But I didn't!" she retorted, emotions coloring her Voice. "You upset me. You make me feel guilty, you fool. Goddammit, me guilty; I'll be the laughing stock."
"I'm sorry," he said. It earned him a frustrated Cry. He stifled another automatic apology.
"I won't take you back, André," she said, sounding exhausted. "Your slimy submissiveness sticks to my skin, making me want to vomit." He wondered why she'd called him at all.
"I understand," he said. She sighed deeply.
"You don't," she decided. "You'll never understand." He didn't know what to say. She obviously didn't either.
"André?" she asked.
"Miss?"
"You do realize that you are torturing me." She heard him gasp.
"Never, Miss! I would never do that!"
"I know that you wouldn't. But you do," she went on. "You keep forcing yourself onto me, even after I told you time and again that I don't want you around. You disgust me." Misery flowed from the cell's speaker, engulfing him.
"Miss," he said. "Please, I... please, I know. But I can't live without you."
He'd said it. He'd said the ultimate selfish thing. He'd taken his life and laid it down at her Feet -- her lovely Feet -- to be kicked about and trampled upon. He knew she didn't want it; didn't want him. He almost added an apology.
The beeps of disconnection wormed into his ear.
***
It was two months later, and he was still alive. He even worked at his old office again, be it as a freelancer. The girl that had replaced him had been speedily promoted to editor. Now she was too busy to write articles, he supposed -- too busy fucking her boss, that is -- so he wrote them for her at roughly half of what he earned before. He knew what he did was debasing and humiliating. He also knew that people despised him for it, or at the very least pitied him -- colleagues, friends, everybody. The fact that he didn't care was proof of who he'd become, and the lessons he'd learned.
It had been the girl who had called him and given him the job, but she seemed to do everything to make his life miserable. She often deliberately held off assignments, just to make their deadline more urgent. She also turned down perfectly good articles, making him do them again over the weekend. She put constant pressure on his fees and urged account to delay payment.
Colleagues wondered why he went for it. Friends said they were disgusted. Truth was, he quietly admired the girl for the way she manipulated males in a male world, always making them think they were in control. Jenner, his old boss, was literally her lap dog. Her male colleagues bent over backwards to please her, even if they called her insufferable behind her back and derided her quick promotion. And he? He saw it all. He was in awe and did his utmost to help her. Wasn't she proof again of the easy superiority of the female race?
One night he'd stayed late to finish a piece on South-African cooking. She'd turned it down twice that day without explanation, although it had to be finished before the next morning. He knew for sure there was nothing wrong with the content of the article, but hardly changing anything would be unacceptable. He'd once tried that and earned a harsh and very public dressing down by her.
It was past eight and the office started turning dark. His desk lamp and computer screen were the only light sources. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, not counting a donut during lunchtime. He didn't notice her approach until her hands closed over his eyes.
"Boo," she said, hissing in his ear. He just sat, his fingers still hovering over his keyboard.
