Cecily

I confess that when I received the call from Miss Ariadne I wasn't sure what to think. Yusuf had told me time and again that his work was safe and that he never had to do anything dangerous. I'm not sure I believed him, not even in the beginning, but for the sake of peace and dignity I nodded.

Dear sweet man. Yusuf is one in a thousand; a million perhaps—smart and funny and wise and never one to put himself forward. His virtues are many, although he doesn't think so, and we've been friends forever. I remember when we first met, back when his sister and I were trying so hard to grasp higher mathematics for nursing school. He was so wise and aloof then, clearly the brilliant one of the family.

And handsome, although he's never believed that either, but I beg to differ. I prefer a man with some meat on his bones; someone solid and strong. My father tells me that it's my mother's nature, and that the instinct to feed and nurture was one of the reasons he married her. But I digress, and my admiration for Yusuf Singh Mehra has but grown over the years.

A good man, he. He never laughed at my ambitions, never made fun of my twice repaired skirts or overly big mouth. Even when my brothers made me cry with their teasing, Yusuf was always kind to me, and reassured me that I would be all right.

And I confess, my feelings for him have . . . grown. Oh I know that no one should put stock in a girlish crush, but in the last few years I've seen him in a new light. Yusuf has changed from the all-knowing older brother of my schoolmate Harsha into one of the people I like the best in my circle of friends. He never forgets my birthday, always remembers how I take my coffee and in many, many ways is my best friend.

A friend I wish was . . . more than a friend.

Nevertheless, I tried not to be impatient for Ariadne to take me to see him. I was up and ready well before she stopped in, and I know my eagerness must have amused her, but she didn't say anything, just brought me to the hotel where Yusuf was staying.

At the door, Ariadne turned to me and her expression was slightly embarrassed. "I have to tell you, Cecily, that I when I called you, I um, didn't tell Yusuf you were coming. Did you call him yourself?"

"I tried," I told her, feeling foolish. "But he wasn't answering. I assumed that he knew! Ariadne . . ." What could I say? We were outside his door now, and I wasn't going to leave, but all sorts of horrible thoughts occurred to me, and my face was red.

But it was too late; Ariadne had knocked, and a familiar voice had already called us to come in. Before what courage I had left could fail me, I stepped inside, quickly, pushed by concern for Yusuf.

Oh the poor man. He was sitting in his boxers on the loveseat, his lower left leg in a splint, a book in his hands, and his expression when he saw me made me laugh.

"Ce-Ce-Cecily!" he managed, but I simply could not hold myself back, and I darted over to hug him. The book fell; I heard it, but my attention was on Yusuf and how good it was to squeeze him.

He's always warm, and there is something about the scent of his skin that makes me smile; something a little citrusy and clean. For a long moment he hugged me back as I bent to him.

So very, very good to hold him, oh yes. And to be held. I confess I lingered, and released him only with reluctance, not pulling back too far. It was good to see his astonishment shift to pleasure, if only until he realized he was in his underwear.

"Ohhhhh, I didn't know you were coming, oh my. Cecily. You're really here, ohh!" he babbled, going pink around the edges of his face.

"Of course I'm here! What's all this about you falling down a flight of stairs! That's not allowed, Doctor Mehra," I told him firmly, but with a smile. "What happened?"

"I—" He began, and tried to sit up, "—tripped. The stairs were cement and very unforgiving, so I ended up at the bottom. Who told you—Ariadne!"

This last was to my compatriot, who brought over a blanket from the closet, and tried not to smile as she did so.

"She was your emergency contact," I heard Ariadne point out.

"And it was very right of her to contact me in this situation," I added. "Pharmakos is with Jacob and the dreamers in the basement, and I have two weeks of emergency leave from the clinic. Now where are your treatment and discharge papers?"

"Cecily, you shouldn't be wasting your leave on me!" he protested, but I wasn't about to let him win *that* argument.

Yusuf

I have always had difficulty in believing in deities. My childhood home was never very big on observing faith to any great degree—oh we paid lip service to the holidays and my parents did instill the basic understandings along with a moral code to promote the good in this life.

But when Cecily stepped through the door of my hotel room, I felt as if I were suddenly in debt to some incredibly generous higher power. I had been given a personal, beautiful undeserved blessing out of the blue.

Then when I remembered I was in my underwear, I wondered a bit about the comic timing of the cosmic being out there.

But still—Cecily! The one person I secretly had wanted by my side!

The practical part of me kept focusing on her nursing skills. The personal part of me simply wanted the comfort of HER—cool hands, sweet smile, gently reassurance that I was going to be all right.

I'm not a hypochondriac; my health is generally good despite a tendency to plumpness and a few vision problems. But being in a strange city and at the mercy of friends of such short acquaintance . . . it's enough to unnerve most people. I am no exception to that, alas.

I will not lie; Cecily's hug made me tear up a bit. Never before had the warm squeeze of someone so dear felt so good, and I knew that sooner or later I would have to admit as much to her.

But for the moment, just having her here was enough to cope with. I pointed an accusing finger at Ariadne, but she was gone.

"She told me she'd be back in a few hours," Cecily assured me, "she wanted to give us some privacy I think." As an afterthought she added, "Ariadne's quite nice."

"Yes," I mumbled, a bit annoyed that I couldn't chide my dreamscape coworker the way I wanted to. It's one thing to let her hear my secret affections, and quite another for Ariadne to play matchmaker with them. Part of me worried what she might have let slip to Cecily, and I tried to look innocent.

Not easy for a man in his undergarments, I assure you.

Cecily, however, was far more interested in my ankle than my guilt, and promptly checked the wrappings when I flipped the lower part of the blanket back. She cast a gimlet eye over the two prescription bottles on the coffee table.

"All right, Yusuf, tell me precisely what happened," she ordered.

I did.

Once I confessed to my own clumsiness, and the painful tale of the aftermath, Cecily reached over and touched my cheek. It was a kind gesture, and bolder than any she'd done beyond hugs. I savored her cool fingers.

"Well then, I suppose you'll need to return for casting, and after that, your mobility will be limited by chair and crutches for a while," she told me. "How do you feel? Do you need any dosages at the moment?"

I grimaced. "I could use an analgesic."

"All right then," Cecily smiled and rose.

We chatted; of Pharmakos, and Harsha, and Green Banana Street, and her job at the geriatric clinic, where Cecily oversaw the medication distribution among the residents there. They were easy things to talk about, but the entire time, I found myself watching Cecily, noting all her beautiful features and manners in this very different setting.

And I loved her just as much, which unnerved me somehow. I cannot explain it, but it wasn't being injured that had me feeling restless and off my feed. Perhaps the vulnerability came from having my unspoken wish granted in the form of Cecily being here.

Here to take care of me.

Consequently, I realized that now I was caught between the comfort of her presence and the apprehension of making some faux pas that would drive her away.

Putting on my pants was a nightmare. I insisted she stay in the WC, and struggled to get the damned slacks over my injured leg without assistance. Cecily let me struggle for ten minutes, then came out and promptly tugged them up herself, murmuring softly and turning away when I did up the fly.

"I do this sort of thing for a living, you know," she reminded me. "Nothing to be ashamed of, truly."

"I'm not seventy-three, though," I argued. "Nor am I arthritic or senile."

"Harsha would argue about that last," Cecily responded, making me laugh and when I did, she smiled too. "There, that's better. How are we getting to hospital, Yusuf?"

"They're sending a van," I told her.