Sitting wasn't working, he wasn't focusing. Maybe if he stood -
AIDS.
Standing, no, pacing, perhaps, here. Pacing back and forth and then in circles under the ceiling fan, imitating its broad pointless circular sweep, hearing the slight rattling of the pull chains suspended from it. Pacing and thinking or trying to think, but -
I am telling you that I have AIDS -
why couldn't he get a grip on this? Why couldn't he -
--and that you gave it to me.
But - no. No. This was ridiculous. This was impossible. How could he have AIDS? He had always been careful. Lord knew he had never been promiscuous. He'd barely been sexually active - not just in the last six months; he could practically count all of the lovers he'd taken in his life on one hand. He had -
A memory curling up unbidden from farther back; tendrils of smoke, wispy and ephemeral at first, then gaining definition and solidity - a memory he never touched unless he had to -
That time. That one time -
No. Ludicrous. He wasn't -
He could have been.
He wasn't!
"He wasn't," he said aloud, suddenly, to verify the thought. The words sounded hollow, rattling against the chains on the fan.
"He couldn't have been."
No answer.
He checked his watch, as if the information would somehow do him some good. 4:19. When would Daphne be home?
--and now Daphne has it too.
He couldn't face her. Couldn't.
And he needed to know what this was about. Well, didn't he? He couldn't very well tell Daphne anything when there was nothing to tell. What would he say? That Mel had made one deranged phone call, that she'd made several unsupported assertions and then had hung up to go take more psychoactive medications? Ridiculous. He needed to know.
He checked his watch again. 4:19 still. As he watched, the digits slipped to 4:20.
So he would find out.
He strode across the room quickly and grabbed his coat. Nearly tripped on the carpet as he strode even more quickly to the door. He caught a glimpse of the sharp, glinting corner of the marble-topped table to his left - pictured himself catapulting toward it, spearing himself, pictured crimson blood spurting from the wound, and now the wound would endanger not only himself, but anyone who came near -
No!
He regained his balance, walked out the door to find Mel.
AIDS.
Standing, no, pacing, perhaps, here. Pacing back and forth and then in circles under the ceiling fan, imitating its broad pointless circular sweep, hearing the slight rattling of the pull chains suspended from it. Pacing and thinking or trying to think, but -
I am telling you that I have AIDS -
why couldn't he get a grip on this? Why couldn't he -
--and that you gave it to me.
But - no. No. This was ridiculous. This was impossible. How could he have AIDS? He had always been careful. Lord knew he had never been promiscuous. He'd barely been sexually active - not just in the last six months; he could practically count all of the lovers he'd taken in his life on one hand. He had -
A memory curling up unbidden from farther back; tendrils of smoke, wispy and ephemeral at first, then gaining definition and solidity - a memory he never touched unless he had to -
That time. That one time -
No. Ludicrous. He wasn't -
He could have been.
He wasn't!
"He wasn't," he said aloud, suddenly, to verify the thought. The words sounded hollow, rattling against the chains on the fan.
"He couldn't have been."
No answer.
He checked his watch, as if the information would somehow do him some good. 4:19. When would Daphne be home?
--and now Daphne has it too.
He couldn't face her. Couldn't.
And he needed to know what this was about. Well, didn't he? He couldn't very well tell Daphne anything when there was nothing to tell. What would he say? That Mel had made one deranged phone call, that she'd made several unsupported assertions and then had hung up to go take more psychoactive medications? Ridiculous. He needed to know.
He checked his watch again. 4:19 still. As he watched, the digits slipped to 4:20.
So he would find out.
He strode across the room quickly and grabbed his coat. Nearly tripped on the carpet as he strode even more quickly to the door. He caught a glimpse of the sharp, glinting corner of the marble-topped table to his left - pictured himself catapulting toward it, spearing himself, pictured crimson blood spurting from the wound, and now the wound would endanger not only himself, but anyone who came near -
No!
He regained his balance, walked out the door to find Mel.