Predictably, my hand wilted back to my side soon after I lifted it. Christine walked slowly across the room; even I could see that she was restraining herself, slowing herself on purpose. Wordlessly, she sat on the sofa beside me and took my hand. She sat there for the longest time, holding my hand and not speaking. My body was in torpor, and my usually cold hands were frozen. Hers were warm and kind; the wild worries tormenting me faded slowly as her warmth transferred to me. Her fingers moved in slow circles, and I knew she was feeling how thin my hand was, how the bones could be felt from all angles – even through the palm.

After a while, she simply turned and wrapped her arms around me. It was traditional for her to squeeze mercilessly when she hugged me, but there was no squeezing this time. Apparently, she'd decided that I was a good bit too fragile for that. I felt her hands on my back, feeling the rib bones and spine protruding. I sat there like the lump I was, basking in her nearness, not caring about anything else on the planet but her arms and her scent and her warmth. So what if I could not hug her back?

Finally, she sat back and regarded me grimly.

"You're so thin… Nadir says that if you hadn't called him when you did, you would have been dead by now. He says that he had 'much to do' to bring you back." Her eyes held mine fast, searching for my reaction. "He also says that you aren't safe yet and that the damage you did to yourself could have lasting effects – your heart, especially. And your kidneys."

She was right about that. To this day I suffer the ill effects of starvation. I never did recover all the strength I lost – and though I have better days and worse days, my heart does give me the occasionally spell.

But I digress.

She gripped my shoulders and they were so wasted that her fingers wrapped around them easily. I could see from the look in her eyes that she wanted to shake me until my brain rattled in my head.

"Do you hear me? You could have died – you could still die. It's not like you're in dire poverty. Why couldn't you have just ordered out Chinese? Anything! If I didn't love you so much I'd kill you myself." Her tone darkened, and I realized that she wasn't simply upset with me – she was absolutely terrified for my life. Though I had made up my mind that life was certainly preferable to death at this point, I still was not as frightened of the prospect as she clearly was. "You're just sitting there, staring at me. Why don't you talk to me? What do you have to say for yourself?"

The truth, my patient listener, is that there was nothing I could say. I knew nothing about the effects of starvation beyond what I was physically experiencing at the moment. It certainly felt possible that I might keel over at any moment. What I felt then was not fear, though I ought to have been afraid for my life. I felt… apologetic. I regretted what I had let happen. I was sorry for her pain and worry, sorry for her lost time on tour and all those in the world who would now miss out on hearing her Voice, sorry for my lost opportunity to carry my beloved into the paradise I designed for her - I had so much to be sorry for, and no way to apologize.

"I do not intend to die." It was the most comforting thing I could think to say. "I am sorry, Christine, to cause you such pain."

Now she was the one with no response. She only sat and stared and shook her head in disbelief.

"It isn't my pain I'm worried about, you stupid, stupid man." Her words were harsh, but her tone was as loving and gentle as any I'd ever heard. "Now let me see what you've done to yourself."

Christine unwrapped everything Nadir had wrapped, uncovered everything he had covered. It was a bit mortifying, but I hadn't the strength or the will to resist her. If she wanted to see everything, that was certainly her right. She pored over me, exclaiming over my wasted limbs and swollen feet, my skeletal torso and sore-wracked flesh. She traced the line of my jaw and cheekbones, clearly visible now, with barely a veneer of flesh over them. When she was done, she went to the door and called for Nadir.

They conferred in the corner, again in hushed tones, so that I could not make out what they said. I do know, however, that I was the subject of discussion. Their eyes constantly flicked over to where I sat. I caught words like 'supplements' and 'bed rest' and 'rehabilitation.' Finally, they turned to come over to me.

Christine stopped halfway and looked around. I saw her widening eyes take in the domed ceiling with its sculpted moldings, the fine bamboo furniture, the Yamaha grand piano dominating the far side of the room, the inlaid glass light-vents, the rounded doorways leading into the rest of the house; she took everything in, barely blinking. I realized that she truly had been so absorbed with me that she had not registered her surroundings at all. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.

"Do you like it?" I asked, suddenly shy. "I designed it and built it with you always in mind. It is yours, if you want it…or…"

She tore her gaze away from the convex bookshelves and their contents. Her face clearly asked the question, though she said nothing. I almost couldn't ask. This was no time for such things; I was hardly in a fitting condition to ask anything of anyone. But she looked so picturesque, standing there with rippling light illuminating her sweet face. I knew exactly what I wanted, and I wanted it now. I gestured for Nadir to give me his hand – which wound up being his entire arm; my legs would not support me at all, but I would stand for this moment.

Shakily, shakily, I gained my feet. Fortunately, she came to me, for I never could have made it to her. Nadir gave up his grip and I tottered there, determined to hold my ground.

"Or it could be ours, if you wish. Can it be ours, Christine?"