**PLEASE READ**
Author's Note: The first and last lines of the story (in quotation marks) are from a poem by Walt Whitman.
Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you!"
Neil MacNeill stared at the dark-haired girl through the haze of his blurring vision. He had been watching her all night long.
She was singing again, enjoying her insobriety to the fullest extent. Her hair hung loose against bare, sweat-soaked shoulders as she swung her arms back and forth like some joyous propeller.
He did not know what about her fascinated him so. She was nothing special. He had already seen dozens like her, waifs who haunted the seedier spots of the city, drinking hard liquor and proclaiming the virtues of "bohemian" life to anyone who would listen. They were everywhere.
But none of them had captured his attention the way she had. She was different. She was young; sixteen, seventeen at the most. He wondered where her parents were or if she had any parents at all.
She was innocent. Somehow he knew she must be, behind her elaborate display of worldliness. He knew, though he had no reason to know. The girl looked over at him for a brief moment and smiled. Her expression was false to its core, the simper of an arrogant performer. So she relished the attention. . .No matter. Try as he might, Neil could not force himself to think ill of anything so beautiful.
I've got to get out of here, he thought, dragging himself out of his chair and wearily pushing it against the flimsy table.
He fought his way through the maze of couples dancing and drunkards cheating at cards for several minutes in search of his escape. He had thought this place would prove to be a diversion, but he now knew that it was quite possibly the worst idea he had ever been talked into.
When at last Neil reached the door, he flung it open with delight, hurling himself into the mercifully fresh air. Freedom at last. He stared up at the night sky, contemplating the long-awaited peace. The murmur of music echoed a little from the café, but it was much quieter outside.
He heard the thud of slow, clumsy footsteps, and he turned to find the dark-haired girl moving towards him in the shadows. He jumped in surprise. She must have used a back door.
The girl stopped and stared at him for a moment, as if she wanted to say something terribly important to him, but had forgotten what in mid-thought.
He smiled, ready to make some charming opening remark. Instead, he found himself asking in an authoritative tone, "Where are your parents?"
The girl laughed and shook her head, speaking with speech so slurred it was almost unintelligible. "That's a good one."
She extended her arm and, meaning to pat him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture, ending up knocking him in the side of the head. She laughed and pulled away. "I'm very drunk."
"Aren't we all?" She made a move to fall, and he grabbed her by the waist. "I'm Neil."
"The big doctor." He let her sink slowly into a sitting position on the ground. "They told me about you."
"Who?"
"Your friends."
Friends? Neil laughed to himself. She must mean those two infants who dragged me to this hell-hole.
Although well-intentioned at first, Neil's fellow residents had left hours ago when they discovered that his misery would take more than a night of drinking to dissolve.
The girl pressed the palms of her hands against the sidewalk to steady herself as he sat down next to her. "I'm sorry about your patient."
Neil sighed. Not again.
"What's your name?" he asked her, hoping to change the subject.
She laughed a tipsy laugh. "Mi chiamano Mimi. Il perchè non so: They call me Mimi. Why, I don't know." She smiled. "It's from an opera. La Boheme. Have you ever seen it?"
"No."
"You should. It's very good." She was almost childlike in her enthusiasm. All of a sudden her speech improved, and she entered an excited, bubbly state. "Actually, my name isn't Mimi; it's Maggie--Do you like it?"
He gazed at her soft, dark hair and those eyes that seemed to be watching everything at once. "Yes, but you look like a Margaret."
She moaned. "Oh, that. That's what my mother calls me."
Neil laughed at her expression of distaste. "So you do have parents," he said.
She shook her head casually. "No."
"Sorry?"
"I'm a bastard child. Nobody knows where my father is. . ." She leaned in closer to him. "Any do you know the funny thing? We're Quakers!"
Neil could not help but laugh a little. "I would never have guessed it."
"No?" She moved in closer to him like a crouching cat. "And what about you? Are you religious?"
"I am a scientist," he said simply.
"Oh, a scientist." She giggled. "You know, I think I like you very much." She extended her hand and he shook it with strained formality. "You may even call me Margaret if you wish." She tossed her dark curls coquettishly. "That's a great honor, understand."
"I see." He wondered whether her animated personality was just a side effect of her drunkenness. . .All the same, she was utterly bewitching. She leaned in closer still.
"And what shall I call you?" she asked. "Dr. . .?"
"MacNeill," he offered.
She made a strange face. "Neil MacNeill?"
"You don't like it?"
"No, it's--" She paused. "Where are you from? Scotland?"
He shook his head. "Cutter Gap, Tennessee." Her vacant look at the mention of his hometown made him smile. "It's very obscure."
"Yes, but why the accent? That's not how they talk in Tennessee, is it?"
"Not in Cutter Gap." He leaned back a little against the side of the building. "I went to school in Scotland."
Her eyes lit up. "Did you really? I'm going to go there someday. . .Scotland, I mean. And everywhere else. I'm going to travel around the world someday."
"Are you?"
"Yes." Her face brightened with a mischievous glint. "Yes, Mac."
"Mac?"
She nodded. "Don't you think it suits you?"
"I'm not sure."
She reached out impulsively and touched his face in the darkness. Her hands were cold. "Well, I like it."
Neil shivered with delight. Who was this girl who reached out to him with such little restraint? He had seen whores, and she was not one. . . .What, then, was she?
"It's very late," he offered softly. "You should go home. . . .Do you live far?"
"Yes. Ardmore." She frowned. "Don't you like me, Mac?"
He sighed. "Of course I like you."
"Then why such a hurry?"
"Because it's morning already." He looked behind his shoulder at the still-bustling café. "Your friends haven't left yet, have they?"
She shrugged. "I don't think so." Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't leave, Mac."
"I have to." He shrugged her off very gently. "The hospital--"
"Oh, yes." A look of pity spread quickly across her face. "I really am sorry about your patient. . .Your friend told me you'd never lost a--"
"That's right." He knew he was being curt, but he didn't care. He had tried all night to forget. "Anyhow--"
"How did he--"
"Do you mind?" The nerve of her! Neil felt his characteristic temper flare inside him, and all of a sudden this girl seemed no longer charming. "It's really none of your business."
"I was only--"
"Enough!" Neil stood up and turned to go. "I don't--" His eyes got a brief glimpse of her expression, and he stopped suddenly. There was undiluted hurt etched on her face. Guilt surged inside him.
Margaret saw his acknowledgment of her wounded expression, and she retorted suddenly, "No wonder your friends left you." He was surprised by her biting tone. Perhaps he had underestimated her.
"That's brutal." He paused, taking a deep breath to calm down. No need to have an argument with a total stranger. "I'm sorry."
"You're not."
Again, he had misjudged her temper. "You're right, I'm not. . .But--" He extended his hand amicably. "Bygones?"
"Maybe." She stood up with some difficulty, and accepted his hand. Her anger had already dissolved by the time her palm touched his. "Will you I ever see you again, Mac?"
He shrugged. "Who knows?" He pointed to the sign above the door of the café, which read: La Porte À L'Enfer. "I'm afraid I don't frequent places like this very often, but who knows. . ."
"Who knows. . ." Impulsively, she cupped his chin in her hands and kissed his mouth before he could make a move of dismay.
"I like you very much, Mac," she said as she opened the door to return to the underworld of the café. "But now I'm repeating myself. . ."
He stared after her, dumbfounded.
"I am to see to it that I do not lose you."