Abby
Pale winter sunshine seeps through the gap in the curtains and stings my unaccustomed eyes. Soft, rhythmic breathing stirs me. I turn my head towards the source of the sound to be greeted by a mess of brown hair upon the pillow. And it all comes flooding back. The taste of his lips. The warmth of his arms. The moans of his desire. A list soon to be embellished by the haste of his leaving. Guilty pleasure flushes my features. He shouldn't be here with me. He's not mine to lose. Delicately I trace an index finger along the line of his jaw, deep-set with sleep. His lips, full in the half-light, cry out to be kissed. I force myself to think on the woman with the round belly waiting at home for him and slowly my hand drops away, embarrassed by its actions.
Lifting his arm from around my waist I slip from beneath the sheets. I dress in silence, afraid of waking him and the inevitable conversation this will bring. Pulling on worn running sneakers, I feast my eyes upon him a moment longer. Then, snatching up key and wallet, I'm gone.
Once outside the bitter morning air stings at my face. I reason it's discomfort I well deserve and continue forward along the sidewalk. My feet trek on autopilot, heading towards the river, before realizing that he could seek me out in a familiar haunt, for a conversation I'm ill prepared for. So, instead I change course and head for Grant park.
My only companions are joggers, defying the frigid air with multitudes of lycra and pallid knees. Slipping onto a seat I gaze across at Buckingham fountain, shades of azure and cyan dancing beneath the early sunlight. Cradling the coffee I picked up on the way over I think back over last night's turn of events. He has a girlfriend. A pregnant girlfriend. What was I thinking? And for that matter, what was he thinking? Did it even mean anything to him? Or will he just amble home to the bed he shares with Kem? God I feel ill.
Two o'clock rolls around and I find myself back in the NICU. For once the ward is unusually quiet which comes as welcome relief to most of the staff but I had been relying upon becoming absorbed by the world of medicine.
Neela finds me charting in the locker room and engages in somewhat poignant discourse.
"Third year, my gross anatomy instructor. He was very skilled at prosecting the brachial plexus."
"You slept with your instructor?" I ask incredulously.
"Dr. Gibson had a very tender way with cadavers," she responds.
"And you called him Dr. Gibson?"
"Only in bed," she replies impishly. "What about you?" she asks wide-eyed, "how long has it been?"
Almost a whole twelve hours...
"Not since Carter," I say diplomatically, averting my eyes.
Her response surprises me.
"I'm sorry."
I turn to face her, puzzlement flashing over my features.
"I just thought that might be a sensitive subject, what with the baby..." her voice fades away, as if she's just uttered a profanity.
"I'm fine," I reply curtly, turning towards the exit. Poor Neela, if she only knew the half of it.
Twelve hours later I stumble towards my now, presumably, empty apartment. But what if he's still there waiting for me? Am I prepared for that eventuality? I have no idea what to say to him. Guilt is eating me from the inside out, tying my tongue in knots.
And what if he's not there? Perhaps he's decided to never mention this again, for this to never happen again. Can I handle that?
With great trepidation I step through the door. Silence. He's gone.
Laying on the dining table is a folded note bearing my name. I pad over to it, pick it up, stare at it blankly... and then toss it into the trash. I don't want to hear it.
I change quickly, longing for the sanctity that sleep affords, and clamber to the bed. The sheets hold his scent, the sole reminder of his presence here. I lift one with the intent of banishing it to the laundry basket, but instead I find myself inhaling it in deeply. Crawling beneath the covers, the fragrance wraps around me, almost as if he's enveloping me once more. Almost. And there in the darkness, alone, the tears fall like rain.
