Disclaimer…Make love, not lawsuits. I don't own anything.
Author's Note…Ahh, another random burst of inspiration. This one came at a most inopportune time, but here it is. Rave, flame, or find a happy medium, whatever.
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There are a few select moments during the hours of twilight and rosy-fingered dawn in which one cannot tell whether the sun is rising or setting. It is those few minutes when exactly half the sun is hidden by the swollen Earth and the other half is gorgeously looming above it, like a mother over her child's cradle. For a few instants, nature imitates life, and is at a crossroad.
It is also one of those times when one is innocent as to whether something is beginning or ending.
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You do not think about the man on whom the surgery is being performed on, because that makes it personal, and if it's personal, the odds are that you will ruin it.
You seem to have a knack for that; screwing your personal life up. It is not a welcome talent, nor is it one that makes timely appearances; but it is one you possess nonetheless and there is nothing you can do about it. Some abilities are really just bad habits in disguise. This you have learned the hard way, and relearning the lesson was even more complex.
This meeting of your professional life and your private life is not at all as clean and smooth as you hoped it would be. Rather, this inevitable gathering is a brilliant crash, with a million dazzling streaks of the rainbow running circles around you. Blue is racing orange, red has already defeated green, but purple and yellow seem to jogging together, rather than against each other. Funny how opposites can exist in unison and compliment each other.
You roll up his hospital dress yourself, allowing him as much dignity as possible, even though it is nothing you have not seen before. You smile wanly to yourself at the memory, but it quickly dissipates when an accidental glance at his blank face reminds you why you are here. And you hurt.
You comfort yourself with the knowledge that later on, (because he will live,) whatever physical pain he faces in the leg as a result of your delayed diagnosis, you will match it in your heart.
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When it is all over, you do not remember much about the surgery. It was long and it was exhausting and draining and now, it is over. In so many ways, it is over.
You wonder if this kills your past with him. Will an act of betrayal ruin a history? Did Brutus' enormous transgression take away from the essence of his friendship with Julius? Et tu, Brute? What was Brutus thinking when he heard that? Surely, there must have been some guilt, even if Julius was worth killing and then some, even if everyone else in the Senate was doing it.
You mentally reprimand yourself for analyzing the camaraderie of ancient historical figures, and your mind drifts to other places as you make up your double bed for one.
The last image seared onto your mind before sleep claims you after four and a half hours of tossing and turning is 'not this leg' in another woman's handwriting.
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You have no problem procrastinating on the way to work the next morning, because it means you will have to face him, live. As a rule, you never procrastinate (much better to face your problems head on) but seeing as you have already broken all your rules in the last twenty-four hours, you have no problem with this criminal behavior.
You pause in the lobby and debate whether or not to take the stairs or the elevator. You have always taken the stairs, but now it seems downright cruel, even though he would never know. And taking the elevator somehow cheapens his plight, in your opinion. Eventually, you take the elevator the first three stories and the stairs the next three stories.
Funny, twenty years ago, you would have laughed with him at this impracticality.
You walk lightly and stealthily into his room, where Stacey is sprawled out on a chair, sleeping and drooling slightly, but he is awake. Drowsy, yes, but awake. "Lisa," he says in a low growl, although it doesn't necessarily imply fury.
"Greg," you reply, somewhat shaken by his calm demeanor. You have prepared yourself for tantrums, yelling and screaming, but not this. You know that although you did not face the initial realization that he cannot use his leg, the anger is still alive. The hurt is still alive. It is the muscle that is not.
You do not waver under his stare, because you know that if you do, you will never be able to look at him again, but this knowledge doesn't make it any easier. If anything, it makes it harder.
He sighs, and that little omission of air is all you need to know that you have disappointed him. You would prefer your biggest fight over this any day; this is impossible to stand. Still, you look at him. You are not proud of your encouragement of Stacey, but what is done is done, and you might as well bear the consequences of your actions sooner rather than later.
Finally, he casts his eyes downwards. He has broken the gaze.
And you wonder if he will ever be able to look at you the same way again.
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Sunrises and sunsets do not exist, not really. It is the Earth on which we live on that tricks us into believing that it does. In actuality, the sun stays in the same place its entire life. Our planet spins and tilts on its axis, giving the impression that the object that we rely on for heat, energy, and life can fall and rise up again.
The sun does not move. The sun does not change.
You do.