"Are you sure you don't need help with that?" Susan asked.

"No, I've got it." Luka poured the coffee, picked up one cup, then turned on his crutch and made his slow way - taking great care to not slosh the hot liquid on his hand - the few steps to the table. One cup down, then the return journey for the second.

Susan watched him, unsure whether to be impressed, amused, or saddened. He was still trying so hard. Trying to prove to her, to himself, that nothing had changed; that he could still do everything he could do before. That despite the crutch (he'd just made the dizzying advance from two down to one), and the brace, and the other injuries; despite the other traumas that were far less visible but were, she knew too well, perhaps even more disabling; he was still the same person he had been before.

Their relationship was still a mystery to her. He was still a mystery to her. She called him often now, saw him often now. He was always happy to talk to her, happy to see her. But he never called her. When she asked him about it one day he just said "You don't give me the chance, do you?" Every time I think about doing it, the phone is ringing and it's you!"

They were easy together. Relaxed. Luka smiled more and more often when they were together, talked more.

He had even begun to talk about Africa, but only on his terms. Whenever Susan brought up the subject, he would promptly change it, but sometimes he would bring it up. He talked about his work there, about the hospital, about some of his patients and the other doctors. He told her about the street markets where you could buy anything from a mango to a tribal fetish. About the grinding poverty and the astonishing kindness of the people.

But he still hadn't said a word about his injuries, where they came from or what, besides the broken leg, they had included. And sometimes he would start to talk about something, seem to realize that he himself was venturing into forbidden territory, and change the subject, but not before Susan saw the clear look of pain in his eyes. Once, he had started to tell her about a patient who had "come to my clinic."

"Your clinic?" Susan had asked. And the look of pain and panic - and he'd quickly said, "The hospital ... he came to the hospital." What clinic? Had Luka worked somewhere other than the hospital? Had he had a clinic of his own? Why couldn't he talk about it? But Susan knew it would do no good to ask, this was an area where she could only tread carefully, and she would not risk hurting him, or driving him away.

They seemed to get along well, but there were still so many things Susan didn't understand. He would never let her touch him. "I don't need help!" was always his excuse when she reached out to steady him when he stumbled or wobbled on his crutch. But he could not hide the shudder, the look of pain that crossed his face when she touched him even accidentally, when taking something from his hand, or passing him in a doorway.

And a level of bodily modesty that Susan found surprising in a man, especially in a man who was a doctor, and who had been a patient for so long. (Both situations that tended to make one more at ease with one's own body, rather than less.) Despite the late summer heat, he always wore long sleeves, he never even walked around the apartment in a tee shirt. (Susan knew he wasn't hiding the wrist scars from her. She had seen them many times in the hospital. In fact, after several visits to plastics, they looked much better.) If he needed to change, even just change his shirt, before they went out somewhere, he would go into the bedroom and shut the door. Several times he'd kept her waiting on the outside stoop because, he'd told her when he finally opened the door, "I wasn't dressed."

What was he hiding from her? What other scars didn't he want her to see? Or was it something else?

Luka had put the second cup of coffee down. He sank down onto the other stool. He looked tired, thought Susan. She stirred her coffee, couldn't think of anything to say.

"Oh, I forgot the sugar," Luka said. He started to stand again, but couldn't conceal a little sigh.

"I'll get it," Susan said. "You sit." She got the sugar and added a spoon to her coffee. "You know," she said, "You could hire yourself a maid or something to help out. All the best doctors in town do."

"A maid? For what? Because I'm so busy? It's not like I do anything all day."

"You just ... seem like you can still use a little help."

"The place not tidy enough?"

"It'll do. But all those empty pizza boxes in the trash are telling me you aren't doing much cooking yet."

"The cooking isn't the problem," Luka explained. "I can stand at the stove ok. It's the grocery shopping."

"I can do that for you ..."

"No!" Luka snapped. "I've told you a dozen times. "I don't need your help with things." He took a deep breath, steadied himself. Put on a smile. "Besides, isn't pizza supposed to be healthy? Balanced, all those antioxidants?" A sip of coffee. "I'm doing fine, Susan. As soon as I'm a little steadier on the single crutch, I'll be able to buy more food at the store. Right now, it's just easier to order out."

"Ok," Susan said. "I'm just ... trying to help."

An awkward silence, then Luka said, "You don't have to keep doing this, you know."

"Doing what?"

"Visiting me ... looking after me ... making sure I'm not lonely. I'm ok. I'm really doing well."

"Don't you like my company?" It was a struggle for Susan to hide the distress in her voice, make her words sound light. What had she done? It was no secret to her that Luka had managed to push away quite a number of his friends since he'd come home. Would she be next on the list?

Luka didn't answer for a minute. "I just don't understand why you are doing it, that's all."

"I'm doing it because I like you, and I thought you liked me. Because we are friends. I like spending time with you. I wasn't aware that there was a problem with that. I ... I don't have a lot of friends, Luka. And neither do you. I thought we were getting along, having a good time together."

"We are," Luka said after another long pause. "I just don't want you to think ... that I need you to feel sorry for me. You're right that I don't have a lot of friends. I've never had a lot of friends. It's the way I've always liked it. I'm ... what's the word for it? An introvert?" Luka got up, poured himself more coffee, carried the cup back to the table. "But I want you to know ... you have to know ... that we can't ever be more than friends. I do like you Susan, and if you really want to be friends, we can be friends. But if you're hoping for more ... it isn't going to happen."

"I'm not hoping for anything," Susan said quickly. "Friends is good." Then, more slowly. "I don't know what's going to happen ... for you, or for me. If we both decide we want something more ..."

"We won't." Luka's voice was firm. "I won't." Then more softly. "At least not in the ... foreseeable future." And another pasted on smile. "Besides, wouldn't Chuck object?"

"Chuck? Who's Chuck?" Susan laughed. "I've just about given up on that relationship." More seriously. "Really, Luka ... if there's one thing I've learned in all my years, it's that relationships happen when they happen. Right now, friendship feels right for me, with you. If that changes, for either of us, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But right now, I need friends a lot more than I need a lover. And I think you do too."

Luka nodded, sipped his coffee, then said abruptly, "You have an early shift tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yeah. I should probably go." Susan got up, got her purse. Was this the source of all the underlying discomfort then? Was Luka afraid that if they touched, that she might misunderstand ... might want something more? Or that he might? Or was it still something else entirely. Was some underlying pain the source of both these fears ... the fear of her touch and the fear of loving ... being loved again?

Luka walked her to the door, said good-bye at the base of the stairs. And Susan let herself out.