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“This is incredible.”

“You like it? That’s great. Really?” He seemed like a small child again, delighted at the praise. The next song was another rock song, but more like the Stones, harder, a growling rhythm, whining guitars, arguing and winning, but an insistent counter melody kept rising up to change the tone. I was trying to make a mental list of questions I could ask him, and started scribbling things down, not wanting to miss anything. It was thrilling, and was going to shut up every critic that ever said anything. I told him so, in between songs, and he laughed. “I hope so, doll, I hope so. I just want to get better—come up with something that will help people through their shit.” He stopped the music for a minute. “Here, I’m skipping ahead a little. I want you to hear this one.”

Another swirling song began, all delicacy and orchestration. Another strange melody served as counterpoint to a repeated line that stopped just when you expected it to reach a conclusion. The lyrics were about losing what you always thought you’d have, getting old alone, having to share what was most precious. Then the chorus began, hard and angular, furious, but the scale was sad and melancholy. By the end, his deep voice was reaching higher, the pain in it sharp and transcendent. It ended on a screech of guitars, and then there was absolute silence.

I sat there, slowly coming back to myself, and realized I was staring out the window, my hands clenched, eyes wet. I uncurled my fingers stiffly and reached up to stop the tear about to go down my cheek, and pinched my nose. I had a lump in my throat. I couldn’t cry, not now. Not in front of him. I wanted to laugh and break the moment, but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be fake and false, turn it all into a joke. Not now.

I turned to look at him. He had a sort of look of wonder on his face, but was equally silent. We sat there, his eyes locked with mine. I felt another tear start, but he was quicker than I was, and I closed my eyes when I felt his slightly calloused fingertip wiping it away. His hand cupped my face, gently, then I felt him pull me towards him, his strong arms wrapped around me. His hand was stroking my hair. “It’s going to be ok, shh, I told you it was.” I couldn’t stop the tears then, and my arms went around him, the feeling of warmth ripping me apart. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you, it’s ok.” His voice was gentle and slow, and the closeness of his body felt huge and comforting, a sanctuary. A warning chimed through my brain, but I pushed away the fear and breathed in the smell of him, the softness of his touch in contrast to the leather jacket I now realized my face was pressed against. He held me against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat in the silence.

I felt him move, and my return to consciousness was a shock. I knew that meant that the moment was ending and in that same second, I knew I was lost. He squeezed me tighter and then his soft lips were against my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”

His hand covered mine, his voice a deep rumble, his face unreadable. “Um, yeah. Take care.” We all walked back down the stairs. He was behind me, so I couldn’t see him anymore, but I felt his presence. Too close. I wanted to hit him, push him away and touch him, but I didn’t do anything but watch my feet go down the grey painted stairs one at time, carefully. One more step away from whatever it was that happened. And on to the rest of my life.

At the corridor, I turned to him. One more look. It was going to have to last, a long time. I looked into his eyes. I was dead anyway, there was nothing I was frightened of now. I searched beyond his beauty for something, some memory, but all I saw were the too bright white walls in the corridor, and his body, a strip of contrast, dark hair, leather jacket, serious expression. I smiled. The tumbrel was behind me, and I was reminded of the lines from the poem:

The door as sudden shut, and I,
I, lost, was passing by,--
Lost doubly, but by contrast most,
Enlightening misery.

“Goodbye.”

“Bye doll.” And he turned away.

The manager made as though he was going to grab my elbow. I shuddered, and glared at him. How dare he try to touch me, be where… I snapped. “Closing time, I get it. I’ll see myself out. You’ve got my number if you want to check on the article before it’s sent to print.”

“I’ll call,” he sneered. “You’re not the only interview,” he paused, “he’s had.”

Bastard. I laughed, nervously, with all the tension of the moment in my voice. “You don’t say. Well, you have been so helpful. I’ll be sure to let them know over at the magazine. I know just how surprised they’ll be.” I pulled open the door. “Thanks again.” The door closed hard behind me.

I walked to the lift and stabbed at the button. I was starting to see black spots in front of my eyes. I had to get some air, before I fainted. The beginnings of a headache were pinging sharply right in the middle of my head. The service elevator finally came, and I stumbled through the opening door, grateful that it was empty. I leaned against the back and closed my eyes. A vision of his hands, long fingered and graceful, handing me my coffee… I felt the tears burn at my eyes. I had to get the hell out of here before my body completely betrayed me.

Out on the street, I turned and looked back at the building. I couldn’t help it; I counted floors, and added one. Those windows at the end. That was…it. I could imagine walking past here in years to come, remembering, silently. Maybe I could tie a flower to the railing, a shrine to what I’d felt. As I was imagining that, a dark shape at the window moved. I started. Was it him? Did it matter? Without any more thought, I raised my hand and waved. I thought I made out a movement, an arm raised. A cab pulled up next to me. Oh right. I waved. Deep breath. I did need a taxi, and I couldn’t spend the rest of my life here, staring. So close to a kind of madness. I pulled open the door handle and gazed up at the window, one last time before I got in. The dark shape was still there. I smiled up at it. Ducked into the cab, and closed the door. I told the driver my address, and burst into tears.

Ten minutes later, my breathing started to ease up, and I felt the ache begin. I took out a tissue, and looked up to see the cabbie looking anxiously at me in the rear view mirror. “It’s ok,” I said, trying a smile. “I’ve just met the love of my life and lost him all in the space of an hour.”

He looked confused. “Still same address?”

I nodded, waving my hand towards the road. Yes. “Yes. It’s fine.” He kept driving, and I pulled myself into the corner and watched the traffic go by. It was the end of another cold New York City winter, bitter and sharp. Hats and puffy coats. A mother with a stroller, baby wrapped up inside. A black suited bicyclist, Lycra covered against the cold. We finally pulled up in front of my building, a slightly run down walk up in a good neighborhood. I fished out some cash, and didn’t wait for change. I flipped open the handle, and climbed out, slowly, checking behind me that nothing was lost. As much as I was dreading having to hear his voice again, I didn’t want to lose the tape. It was all I had of him. All I’d ever have, said a voice inside my head that sounded remarkably like the manager.

I took a deep breath, feeling the cold hit my aching head, shut the door and tapped on the roof of the cab. Watching it drive down the one way street was like another link being snapped, something else broken between me and him. I would not cry again. No. I fished out my keys, and opened the heavy door, and slowly climbed up the stairs. I still felt light headed, and I gripped the railing as I went up. Six long twists later, I was at the top. I leaned on the door, breathing, and caught a whiff of that smell. No, it couldn’t be. I held up my bag to my nose, and inhaled. There it was, just a hint. The stairwell, the ugly tiles, the sparkles in the flooring, my headache—all receded—and I was left with that strange heaviness in my chest again, the feeling that had come over me when I first met him. I sank down, my back to the door, and buried my head in my bag. I didn’t care what kind of fool I looked, I just wanted to breathe in that…smell…and let it take me under. It will fade, I thought to myself, and the pain hit me again.

Eventually, I stood up, shakily. This was not normal. I needed some normal. I unlocked the door and went in, but instead of throwing my bag on the floor, I walked into the kitchen and placed it gently on the table. A symbol, of something. I wasn’t even sure what anymore. I felt stoned. I went and washed my face. A glass of wine. That would settle me. And then I thought of him, facing that kitchen, facing his demons, and my stomach twisted. Coffee. I could drink nothing but coffee. “Oh come on!” I shouted. This was crazy. But I made the coffee and sat down again, running our conversation over in my mind. I was not looking forward to writing the piece, listening to the music, and his voice. That voice. Again. My headache was returning. I put the mug in the sink and walked across the hall to my bedroom. I needed to lie down.

In the shadows of the windowless hall, I noticed the red light flashing on the phone, but ignored it. I was sure it was Alice, wanting a blow by blow of the afternoon. Well, that would have to wait too. I wasn’t even sure I could describe what had happened, even if I wanted to. Because I knew I didn’t want to. It was ours. A moment we had created together. I wasn’t going to tell anyone. Maybe just myself, and even then I probably wouldn’t believe it. Like that movie. Yeah, the movies. They made them for a reason.

I returned to the kitchen, and picked up the bag. A few hours, alone with my thoughts, and I’d be able to return to life. Sure. I lay back down on the bed, and holding the leather bag to the pain in my chest, I closed my eyes.

I creaked out of bed, carefully placing my bag to one side.

“Since when do you nap with your bag? I know you’re dedicated, but…” She faltered under the look I gave her.

“Come on, it’s a long story.” I took her hand and squeezed it. Of course, she was right. Of course. I needed a lifeline back to the world, and here it was. We walked hand in hand to the kitchen and she turned the kettle on. Spinning around, she pulled the box of single malt from the carrier bag.

“Oh, the good stuff, huh? You must really want me to talk.” I laughed.

“Hey, life’s too short, right? It was on sale.” She turned up the light and I winced. She leapt to switch it off.

“Sorry, my head’s a bit sensitive.”

“Candles?” She ran around pulling out some tea lights and holders. She was always like this, a whirlwind. But everything got done, and it always looked beautiful. I couldn’t move at that speed, I’d break things. Within moments, the table and counters had lit candles scattered at artistic intervals. With the sleeting rain hitting the window and the distant sound of the horns of evening traffic, it made for a cozy, almost romantic setting. Romantic. I winced. She didn’t miss it. “Isn’t that better? Maybe you should take something.” She ran out again, and was back in seconds with some tablets. “It’s prescription, stop looking like that. You know I wouldn’t give you just anything. Even for a story.”

She pulled out two shot glasses and filled them expertly to the top. The tea pot was already on the table, along with a small pitcher of milk. “Alice, you’re amazing. I feel better just watching you.”

“Yes, I’m wonderful. Sláinte.” And she clinked the glass with me, and we downed the whisky. I felt the burning sensation pour down my throat, making my eyes water, but melting some of the cold plate feeling I’d had there. Maybe I could make it through this.