Standing outside the private diagnostic clinic, the rain came down in buckets. The kind of rain, in big drops, so closely spaced, that if you looked up and opened your mouth, you'd drown. That kind of rain.
Standing there, just under the overhang, I was still mostly dry. The girl—well, woman—standing next to me wearing a thin cotton dress, bare shoulders, with spaghetti-straps holding it up, was pretty well soaked and obviously shivering in the cold.
I'd just gotten my most recent bottle of retroviral meds from the clinic and read the results of my last blood tests, two weeks previous. The results were the same. Depressingly so. I was still HIV-positive, although my T-cell count was still OK. As long as I kept taking my meds, I had a good chance of dying of old age before the virus caught up with me.
But it'd been the end of social life as I'd known it. No friends. No drinking, sports-watching buddies. No sharing drinks or food. No touching or cuddling. No dating. No woman in my life. No sex.
The last gift from my cheating ex-wife—the gift that kept on giving—not that she ever knew about infecting me.
The girl next to me was making little movements, toward the wall of water, then back. Indecision written on her face and body. Her hair, done up in many thick braids, was also soaked. Behind us, the clinic doors had just been closed and locked, so it seemed to her that it was either forward, for more soaking or stand there all night, shivering.
So, naturally, my 'damsel-in-distress' conditioning kicked in, as I introduced myself as David Montclair (that's two syllables ... pronounced "Dah-VEED"). I'm 38 years old, 6' 6", 245 lbs. and with an independent income, living off the royalties of several critical patents in cryogenic-adhesives engineering.
To which I got back the ghost of a smile and a name returned, which she said was Shayla (two syllables ... SHEA-La). She was about 5' nothing, maybe a little too skinny, a former hospital floor nurse but unemployed right now. No last name given, probably wise, since she was talking to a complete stranger.
A little small talk, and then my offer of a ride to where she wanted to go. No strings, no conditions. "No rape," I even said, with what I hoped was a disarming smile.
Damn, she accepted, right there on the spot. Cautioning her to please wait for me, I spread my big golf umbrella and stepped into the deluge, in a walk to my car. No sense running, as the water in the clinic's parking area was already ankle deep.
I reached my 2009 Hyundai Santa Fe crossover-SUV and got in. Reliable as usual, the engine caught and started immediately. That was a good feeling!
I got out my emergency wool blanket and dry-off towel, arranging them on the seat next to me.
I pulled out of the parking space and maneuvered the passenger-side door to just under the overhang, then unlocked the side door from inside. I pushed it open and a very wet, shivering woman got into the seat, atop the towel and blanket. Wool's warm, even if soaked with water, and, over the next few moments, between the blanket and the car's heater, she stopped shivering.
Driving a few hundred yards, I parked the car, leaving it running and just let her absorb the heat and keep it in with the blanket, before I asked, "Where do you want me to take you?"
She started several sentences, but stopped in the middle of each. First a cheap motel, a few miles away. Then a Woman's Shelter, the next county over. Then the YWCA, downtown. Finally, she just shrugged, and asked if she could stay in my car until tomorrow.
I just sort-of asked, "Homeless?"
She nodded, tears beginning to form in her eyes.
I sighed—the 'damsel-in-distress' conditioning now in full cruise control—as I asked, "Uh, Miss, can I take you home with me? Dinner and breakfast. Hot shower. Clean sheets. Safe bed. Locked door. Same deal as offering you a ride. No strings. No conditions. No getting you drunk. No drugs. No seduction. No rape."
She nodded, again, as she dug in her purse, extracting a plastic pill bottle. I offered her water from my un-opened bottle, there on the console. Taking the pill, she wordlessly passed the now empty pill bottle over to me. Printed on it, I read that it was an antiretroviral, to be taken 2x a day.
I asked, "Infected, right?"
She nodded, then asked, "Do I still get to go to your place, eat, take a shower and sleep safe?"
I nodded 'yes' while pulling my own newly-refilled bottle of the same antiretroviral Rx meds from my damp shirt pocket. The identical same medication, as I took back the bottle of water and chugged down my own afternoon/evening dose.
"Me, too," I muttered, then added, "yeah, the same deal as before. I don't make empty promises. You can't infect me any more than I already am, even with a 'thank you' kiss, tomorrow."
Noting her pill bottle was empty—and knowing that the pills had to be taken without any interruption or her symptoms would recur—I pulled the car over to an spot on a curb and poured part of my larger bottle into her nearly empty one.
Handing her now mostly full one back, I intercepted a wide-eyed stare.
"What?" I asked.
"You just gave me life," she near-whispered, adding, "hold still."
She leaned over the center console and kissed me, full on the lips. Her eyes went even wider, as it seemed an electric shock coursed through me and, apparently, through her as well. A second kiss followed in a couple of moments, complete with a little tongue. I felt the same 'shock'.
Then my mouth was all but raped, as Shyla, my passenger of the moment, surged across the car's center console grabbed my head and shoulders, then proceeded to investigate the state of my mouth, throat and tonsils by the tongue-thrust method, while depriving me of life-giving oxygen for several minutes.
Finally breaking free of me, she gasped for air, as she grinned and said, "Take me to your place, where I can do more of that. You just gave me life in pill form. I didn't ask for it. You just did it. Take me to where you live. Then take me!"
