george

Over the edge of the computer as she updated her latest charts, Samira eyed Princess just like she had all morning. Must have been doing so pretty intently, too, considering that Mel picked up on it and broke her focus by asking if she was okay.

Samira swiveled to face her with an automatic smile and nod. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good, just… something kinda weird happened to me, and I feel like Princess would have good advice but,” She watched Princess giggling with Perlah, “Not sure I’m ready for anyone else’s opinion, you know?”

“Princess? I’m sure any other nurse would know what Princess would know. You know, we’re really lucky-”

“No, I mean,” Samira sighed after cutting Mel off, “It’s about a new neighbor I have. It’s a man, and I can’t tell if he’s plotting against me or just kinda… you know. And Princess-”

“Knows a lot about weird guys. Right,” Mel finished her sentence. They both sat in the silence for several seconds before Mel attempted to go on, deciding there hadn’t been a clear conversational cue to stop and she might be rude not to continue. “If you want to talk about it, you can always talk to me. I don’t even get to gossip with my own sister anymore, so,” She laughed, sort of, and adjusted her glasses, “Just, you know. If you want.”

Samira debated the options before her. Wait and maybe get a chance to Princess, who would definitely tell Perlah at least, who would probably get the wrong idea the guy had been coming onto her because she was always pestering Samira about being too pretty to be single. Or, talk to Mel, who might not have any advice in the area of unique men, but was sure not to tell a soul. After weighing them both she realized it was too strange not to talk about before the day was over, and told Mel about the entire three minute interaction.

“So,” Samira said, “My gut feeling says he’s not dangerous, just a little shy. But what if he murders me? Am I stupid? Does he have a tracker on my car or something?”

Mel waved off this particular concern with a small smile. “If he does murder you, it’s a good thing you told me because I’ll make sure he’s the prime suspect. But it kinda just sounds like he’s a little awkward. This is the only time you’ve ever met him?”

“Yeah, but… but the sidewalks have been clear every time it’s snowed, and they’re always freshly shovelled right before I get home even if the rest of the street isn’t. My parking spot is always clear when I get home, and someone cleaned the leaves and wrappers off my front stoop in October when I was working. Also,” Samira’s eyes zoned out as several different puzzle pieces began falling into place, “The sidewalks and dirt plots were weeded for the first time ever after he moved in, and the pop I put in the backyard to stay cold during October… I don’t think I ever bought more. I wonder if he was replacing them- we share a backyard… and the cat food! The food! Oh my God. Is he a psycho?”

“He might be. Or he’s just lonely and sees his neighbor is gone all the time,” Mel said. Samira furrowed her brows and nodded slowly. He did say that, right? Or at least something close to it. Something about not having anything to do.

Mel King was a genius.

“Thank you, Doctor King. I think you’re right. Oh, and… not that you would, but between us, right?”

“Of course. I would never break that promise,” Mel told her seriously, standing up with a formal nod and disappearing to her next patient. For the rest of the shift Samira had an extra pep in her step; it’d been a long time since she had any excitement in her life outside of work and her mother. And if she didn’t have to scrape her windshield off every single morning- hell, even if she got out of it just for today and Andrew never did it again- was that really so bad after all?

When she pulled into her parking spot at 7:26pm that night her spot was perfectly cleared out. She didn’t worry about slipping on ice or snow on her way into her apartment, because there wasn’t any, and prepared a cup of food to turn around and head outside to fill up the stray cat’s bowl. Samira nearly did fall this time: her stoop, which had been clear one minute ago, had a small carrier on it. She pulled it inside and closed the door to the harsh cold.

The carrier had a manila envelope attached; rifling through the paperwork inside, it was veterinarian paperwork from earlier that day. On the very back was a note:

All yours. Wanted to help. Tortured. Very scared of humans right now. Please be patient DO NOT SEND TO SHELTER PLEASE. Will take her.

Would have died without you.

Andrew 2nd floor (from this morning)

“Oh, baby,” When Samira set the manila envelope on her kitchen counter, there were tears gathering at her waterline. She brought the container up and popped open the door then slowly inched her hand further in towards the cowering animal. It took forty five minutes before the kitten- which Andrew had somehow wrangled into a Jack O’Lantern sweater that must have been on clearance after Halloween- was curled up on her chest, but she would’ve waited four years if that’s what it took.

“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, sweet girl. Gonna be much nicer to eat inside, huh? Yeah,” She murmured, pressing her lips to the spot atop her head where a shrivelled burn patch met a wiry fuzziness of leftover fur. “You’re safe now.”

As soon as those words left her mouth she glanced up to her ceiling. She never heard Andrew walking around, contrary to the herd of elephants that must have occupied that second story apartment since she first moved to Pittsburgh, but she had a distinct feeling nevertheless that he was standing around upstairs, anxiously waiting for some confirmation that she’d happily received the kitten. How could she deny him that?

Andrew must have been at the door already when she knocked. It immediately swung open and he immediately avoided eye contact. This time, he focused on the Jack O’Lantern Samira was stroking as it slept, stretched across her forearm.

Samira wore a warm smile, looking away from the cat and up to Andrew. How could she smile after twelve hours of doctor-ing?

“Hey, neighbor. Mind if we come in?”

Andrew ushered them out of the drafty hallway into his apartment. It was barren, and the cleanest bachelor pad she’d ever seen. Not helping the thoughts of him possibly murdering her but, then, the only thing she had left to live for these days was in her hands and Andrew didn’t seem like the type to want to hurt the kitten.

“I should’ve figured someone was helping me out,” Samira said, softening her voice and adding a sincere, “Thank you, Andrew. From both of us.”

The kitten yawned. Andrew watched intently and then, in a bold shift of demeanor, glanced up to look at Samira. She was pretty even when she was tired, which just wasn’t fair to him and the rest of the world’s uglies.

“You did it. Nice that you… fed her,” His words came out too slow, too unnatural. Not like hers. “I never had a pet but… if you’re comin’ up here ‘cuz you don’t want her, I get it. I’ll-”

“I want her! Are you kidding? Andrew, look at her. Look at what we did,” She murmured, holding the cat out to him. Andrew wasn’t sure why, especially not after she repeated the gesture, and when he finally realized he was supposed to take the cat he immediately put even more space between him and Samira.

“No, no, I don’t wanna hurt it,” Andrew shook his head. His hands rose and fell limply back to his sides, while confusion threaded itself onto Samira’s features.

“Andrew, you’re not gonna hurt her. You’re the one that got her in this and took her to the vet. Here, just,” She stepped towards him and extended the cat again. How Samira had calmed her down so much, he had no idea- this was not the shivering kitten he knew several hours ago. This wasn’t the kitten he’d carefully lured into the carrier to trap it in the first place. Leave it to this magical, mysterious doctor woman to fix that cat so quickly.

In his hands the kitten was further dwarfed. Even with the fat it had gained from their dedication, it was still far too small for its age from malnutrition. In his large and sinful hands the cat looked tinier and more beautiful than ever. Never had something so pure existed, and Samira had been the one to bring it out.

But she didn’t want it.

“I didn’t know you could feel them when they,” Andrew gestured vaguely with his free hand, then quickly returned it to resume stroking the hair between her ears. Her body was crackling in his hands and she rumbled like a miniature engine, rolling around until she tucked her little nose against his shirt and nuzzled into the warmth Andrew’s body provided.

“Purr.”

“Yeah, that. She’s loud,” He ran the pad of his index finger over one of the bald spots and frowned. “You really don’t want her?”

“What? No,” Samira shook her head and gave a small almost-laugh, “No, I love her. But I was wondering if you might help me out? Like you said, I’m at the hospital a lot. Maybe we can do shared custody, and I can come visit or watch her on my days off? But she’d be better getting used to your apartment, don’t you think?”

“Shared custody,” Andrew repeated slowly, raising a brow. Samira was still smiling. She was very nice, he thought. He wondered if the landlord would let him build a back porch come springtime, to give Samira a place to relax after her long hospital shifts. Somewhere she could watch the kitten run around and play when it was warm out, or drink a can of pop in a nice chair.

“I’ll come check in on you two tomorrow?”

Samira reached out and pet the cat with a featherlike touch. Again, the cat gave a great stretch of its body amidst its slumber, but that was hard to focus on when her hand ended up floating an inch above the forearm holding the cat, and her fingertips nearly grazed the fabric of Andrew’s shirt. Her voice was so soft and gentle and her hair had come undone and it was dark and curly and he liked when it wasn’t back in that funny clip thing.

She asked him a question. Andrew remembered this, and replied with a solemn nod.

“Alright,” Samira rolled back onto the heel of her tennis shoes and turned for his door. His general demeanor would take some getting used to, but she was definitely skewing towards that being due to extreme shyness rather than serial-killer-ness. “Have a good night, you two. Come knock if you need anything.”

Andrew didn’t move from where he stood. When she opened his door he said: “I’m going to look at your car when you get back from work tomorrow. It needs an oil change,” And met her eyes again so she knew he was serious.

Her eyebrows raised. She still smiled, which he didn’t understand. And then she nodded as he had, but much more normal and prettier, and closed the door. He watched from his living room window until she disappeared and listened for the sound of her door as it opened, closed, and latched beneath him.

Andrew’s skin still burned from where she’d come close to touching him; he immediately had to shed the shirt she’d come into contact with and throw it in the laundry, unworthy of wearing it and nauseous at the thought. There was a pit in his stomach that hadn’t been there in months. Years, even. He stared blankly up at the ceiling and laid like a corpse with his arms across his chest and tried to stop thinking about Samira while being in bed because that made him a creep and he should stop because she deserved better than a creep thinking about how smart she was or how pretty she was or how kind she was. Mostly the last one. In any case, she didn’t deserve to be sullied by a man thinking even innocent thoughts about her in bed. He should be pushing her from his mind entirely.

Samira knew he’d gotten out before she ever even parked her car.

Slowly, she’d pulled up the gravel drive and onto the cement pad. Today, each and every pebble seemed to crunch extra loudly beneath the tires on the trip up the driveway, and the golden hour sunshine found every possible space between overhead branches and leaves to slip through. When she stepped out of the car (it had gotten dusty since she’d had it cleaned two days ago, she noted) there was nothing to be seen, save for the family of ducklings swimming in a perfect line around their pond. There was nothing to be heard except for their occasional quacks, the breaking of a twig from a group of bunnies that loved to raid the garden, and birds trilling and whistling their song to the gradually setting sun.

Nobody was waiting for Samira. He had gotten out.

There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. As usual on these rare occasions, her slippers were right by the door since he wouldn’t be there to tend to her. She shed her scrubs in the basket next to them and began towards the master bedroom clad in a sports bra and panties, pausing at the lip of the hallway and waiting two full minutes with one long glance either way as if he’d materialize out of thin air. When nothing happened she took a deep breath, paused and remembered for herself what the expanding and shrinking of her own lungs was like, and proceeded to the master bath.

Outside the shower on a specially made post hung her favorite tee shirt to sleep in, a folded pair of shorts, and a bath robe she didn’t dare discover the price of. The juxtaposition of the robe to her usual sleep outfit- he would always give her a life of luxury, but never at the cost of changing what she already liked- was laughable.

A wind chime sounded in the breeze and the curtains on every kitchen window billowed in the light wind. Samira enjoyed the silence over a plate of last night’s leftovers and television, then dumped her dish into the dishwasher and retired to her bedroom by 10pm. She left the windows open for the sake of the cross-breeze, but locked the doors. He’d find his way in.

After a long day at the hospital and the forty-five minute drive each way, no sight was as glorious as the perfectly folded and fluffed master bed. She collapsed into it stomach down and savored the marshmallow squish of the comforter, and Samira was on the verge of falling asleep in a mere 10 minutes. She blinked, turning onto her side instead of her stomach in her dreamlike state. A smile spread across her lips at the sight of a large man silhouetted by moonlight, standing as still as stone.

It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see his face: Samira knew exactly who it was staring down at her, and reached out a hand.

“I’m dirty,” He whispered, voice gruff. His shirt was littered with patches of inklike black; she’d learned to love just how beautiful blood looked in darkness.

Samira shushed him and waved her hand, beckoning him in. He stepped forward once, twice, three times until his knees were at the edge of the bed. Neither of them spoke. In the moon’s bright light, she glowed. She always glowed, he thought.

The man sank to his knees; in return, Samira pulled herself up and sat in front of him, covering her mouth as she yawned. She whispered, “Where’d you go today?”, and brought her hand up to run through his hair. He flinched away.

“I’m dirty.”

It was clear that he wasn’t budging. With a sigh, Samira reached over and pulled the chain of the nightstand’s lamp.

The lamp illuminated the room and Andrew retracted from her as if hit. Cowering as if hit and pushing himself away to avoid any contact with her, he fixed his eyes on the floor beneath her feet. “She’s dead.”

“Dead?” Samira’s calm expression fell. “Dead? Andrew, who- are you talking about the fawn?”

“He hit her! I was walkin’ around the pond and I heard it. He was getting ready to drive off when I got out to the road, just dragged her off like she,” Andrew’s voice cut off as he grew too choked up to speak. Their property had come to host its share of wildlife families, and Samira had no qualms admitting over the last month that her favorite was a fawn. She adored the videos on the security cameras of her toddling behind her parents, legs longer than she knew what to do with, joining the rest of the wildlife and partaking in the garden that was, at this point, more for them than Andrew or Samira.

There was silence again as Samira debated how to respond. Of course, she was upset about the fawn, but that’s just how things worked around here. It saddened her, though not to the point of tears quite like Andrew was at.

“He killed your favorite animal,” Andrew was wrecked, looking up to meet her eyes, his frezkled cheeks growing red and splotchy past the blood in which they were covered. “He didn’t even apologize to you!”

Andrew watched Samira stay quiet, watching her eyes scan up and down his kneeling figure. She was always so thoughtful, so concerned. He often lamented that he’d never know what it was like to be as smart as her because if he did, maybe he could be better for her. Every day he spent with Samira, he figured more and more that it must be a lonely endeavor, being the most intelligent person on Earth. She never said a wrong word, or did a wrong thing, or mean thing, and she spent every day of her life saving other people’s lives even when they were rude to her and then came home to the shell of a man that he’d been born as.

He wished she wasn’t so lonely up there, and was disgusted with himself for being so far on the opposite end of the spectrum that he could never provide her any comfort.

“He didn’t apologize to me?”

“Well, I- I made him, but originally,” Andrew stopped, running a hand over his face. At the sight of the blood further smearing, she licked her lips. “I have the video. I took a video. I made him say sorry to you, obviously, because- because it’s not right, it’s not right that he killed,” His voice broke. He tried again, though she was trying to shush him now, “He killed her, and didn’t even say sorry to you-”

“Andrew,” His jaw snapped shut when her voice raised suddenly, sharply. It was a rare occasion to ever hear her like this. “Would you come here?!”

Andrew set the phone down from where he’d been fishing it out of his pocket. He swallowed the lump in his throat and obeyed her command, shuffling back in front of where she sat and gazing up at her with wide, teary eyes.

“I don’t like seeing you so upset, Andrew. You know that,” he cursed himself for the frown on her face. Upon reflection, he decided he should’ve bled the man to death; should’ve taken a vegetable peeler to his skin and hung him upside down and peeled layer after layer after layer. Slitting his throat had been far too kind. Now he was covered in blood and infecting Samira’s house, and Samira was frowning, and he was upset and Samira hated when he was upset and, damnit, didn’t the man know? Didn’t he know this was Samira Mohan? Didn’t he know she saved lives, and made kids laugh, and always donated at checkouts when they asked about rounding up for charity and actually added an extra dollar or five, and scolded Andrew when he tried putting a fence around his garden because the animals deserved it more?

“Andrew,” He reeled himself back in, and his bottom lip trembled. Humanity had done a disservice in its existence. Each human was rotten to the core and entirely undeserving of Samira’s world.

“C’mere,” Samira finally succeeded in guiding her fingers through his hair. His head threatened to lower in shame as he felt the blood transfer onto her skin, but she tugged enough to keep his eyes on hers. She continued to lead him towards her, then upwards, and back, all very slowly and gently until he finally took her in his arms and took over.

Andrew laid Samira down right in the middle of the bed. She forced his bloodied shirt off and set it by her hip, inches away from his knee. A streak of doglike devotion flared through him when he took in how much blood had transferred onto her from all this: even when she removed her shirt, blood was smeared on her waist from where he’d held her, and her hands and wrist were painted from her handling of their shirts. Even so, it was nothing compared to the man above her.

“You’re not dirty,” Samira spoke, finally. “You’re just… devoted. Besides, it’s been a while. It’s good for you to get out, remember?”

Andrew nodded.

“I told you it was good for you. And I’m a doctor, Andrew- You trust me, right?”

“I trust you,” He echoed without hesitation, the very idea of anything else purely preposterous. Andrew’s voice was more of a whispered croak as he went on. “The bed’s gonna get dirty. Blood’s hard to get out.”

“You can take care of it while I’m at work tomorrow, can’t you? Get some new bedding, and maybe we can have a bonfire when I get back?” He nodded.

As all this was happening, a fire had been stoking itself inside of Samira. Ever since she’d pulled into the house and he’d been away, it had sparked. Now, with him on top of her, covered in the blood of a man that dared to disrupt any part of Samira’s life, it turned into a roaring blaze; how did this man not know anything besides defending Samira? Loving her? At times, the worship irritated her but here, when she was feeling like this and there were tears mixing with blood and dirt on his cheekbones and she had to remind him how to be human again instead of a guard dog, it served them both quite well.

Samira tugged him down towards her face. His eyes didn’t close, instead widening as he tried to shift away from her entirely and keep her unbloodied. With a significantly firmer yank she put him back on his path and connected their lips right as he whimpered; whether it was from the pain that came with her pulling on his curls, or the fact a good half of her face was now covered in blood, she didn’t care.

“Samira, I,” She huffed over his stammering, irritated, forcing him back into the kiss whenever he tried to pull away out of shame and actually biting his lip out of exasperation, “I don’t wanna get you dirty- shit, would’ya quit bitin?!”

His frustration was feigned (she could stab him with a white-hot poker and he’d beg her to do it again, if that was what she wanted) and disappeared altogether when she giggled against his muffled protest. At the same time he felt her hand fumbling at his waistband.

“Off,” She sighed. He obeyed. Boxers, too, after she snapped the waistband when they were left behind. Samira refused to let him stop kissing her (unless he took a break to nibble her neck, or lap at any skin left unbloodied) and moaned into his sobbing as soon as she could start tasting his tears.

“Down?” Samira said. She knew the answer, because it wasn’t a question; this man existed, in his own words, for her. To defend, protect, provide, die, love, entertain, please, her. All for her. Always for her. He took his time descending her torso, kissing her collarbones and sobbing into her bare chest between kisses. Andrew wanted to linger, could stay there forever, suckling and weeping into the breasts of creation, the breasts of the human for whom the entire universe had been crafted for- but she had ordered him down. Downwards he continued until pubic hair tickled his chin, not wasting a second before burying his nose into her and taking the first deep breath he’d been able to catch amidst his tears.

“God, Andrew!” She cried out. It was a welcome departure from what she’d spent most of the last several minutes telling him: “stop apologizing”, and, “you don’t need to thank me”. Her hands, hips, torso, breasts, face, were all sullied with dirty maroon.

If he wasn’t already in such a state, Andrew would have started bawling right around here. Her eyes screwed shut as she sighed and whined and called his name and “yeah”s and “there” and “Oh my God”s and varying profanities. Her legs clenched so hard around him that, even when he used his brutish strength to separate her thighs from their death grip around his head, neck, and face (not because he disliked it, God, he’d love to suffocate here by any means possible, but because she liked the game) and force her down into the bed with legs much further spread, she would still manage to squirm her way out of his grip and start the process over again. Sometimes, she even kicked her way back to mildly asphyxiating her boyfriend, banging against his chest and shoulders and, on one occasion, even catching his nose with enough force that it started bleeding.

God, she was magnificent.

Andrew wished he could stop crying. Catch a sight of her as he dove into her with tongue, and nose, and lips and breath and fingers, that was unobscured by his tears, by his own shortcomings. He could smell her body wash mixing with the scent of her sweat and cum and a faint hint of laundry detergent from her panties. Whenever she thrust particularly hard, up and against him, his whispered his thanks, to her and whatever had been divine enough to create her, if there was anything higher than her that was even capable of such a task.

“God, please, Andrew, please,” She sighed between moans that grew closer, and closer, and louder. Samira came with a loud call of his name, a mercy to her devotee. He drank her, nearly ate her alive, begging and whining when he thought he’d gotten every last drop and ignoring the twitches of her body and her halfhearted insistence to stop, to give her a break. He was imperfect, a concept he’d tried to explain to her but, in her perfection, she’d never be able to understand- he couldn’t stop when it came to Samira. Not when a man was begging for his life after killing her fawn, or when she said she wanted a garden and he spent three days tirelessly completing a project that should have taken weeks or months, or when she came with his face buried between her legs and she believed him strong enough and stupid enough not to scour for every droplet of her divinity. She’d been relegated to a life with Andrew, a lifetime of stooping unimaginably low; the least he could do was try to prove that he wanted to be worthy of that, even though it simply was not possible.

Andrew ripped himself off of Samira, begging for her forgiveness for his selfishness, for not stopping, for not doing as she’d asked even though he knew she hadn’t meant it. He clambered to the floor, bawling. Despite coming into the bedspread twice, humping like a deranged, disgusting animal in the lap of a Goddess, in the time it had taken her to finish he had now grown so tightly wound that he felt he might explode. He deserved it, crying into the carpet, the bedroom and comforter and Samira and his body covered in blood.

His hips stuttered involuntarily against the floor. Samira watched, exhausted, starving, utterly thrown by the level to which he worshipped her. She knew exactly why he was on the floor: it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. If he had the strength to leave the room, or even the house, and sleep out there? He would. But he was too weak, which she knew he’d only take as a further moral feeling because, simply put, she knew he felt that he didn’t deserve to sleep in the same space as her.

“Andrew,” Samira said, moving to the edge of the bed with her body still shaking. “Andrew, look at me.”

Samira used her foot to nudge at his back and hip (he thrusted again, poor guy, he couldn’t help it) until he had rolled to face her. He hid his bloody face in shame, nude and curled up at her feet.

It was all the confirmation Samira required: he needed to finish. There was no point wasting time in convincing him to get back on the bed, and that he deserved to touch her and look at her and be around her at all, so Samira took matters into her own hands and stood from the bed, stepped over him, and sunk to her knees until she straddled him.

“Look at me?” Samira repeated, even softer and sweeter than before. Beneath her, at every single point of physical contact, his body jerked and contracted, and not a bit of him calmed until a brief moment of peace when she caressed both sides of his face and whispered, “I love you, Andrew.”

“I love,” He couldn’t even say I love you without being interrupted by a whine. Pathetic. Weak. Undeserving. “I love you, Samira.”

“Yeah?” She asked, taking a featherlike hold of him and watching his face twist while she lined herself up.

“I love you, God, Samira, I’m sorry, please, wait, just- I love you, I’m not,” She didn’t wait for him to make an excuse as to why he didn’t deserve this, and sunk herself slowly down onto him. He yelled her name- primal, guttural, like it came from a place he couldn’t control- and begged her to stop not because he wanted it, God, he didn’t, but because he didn’t deserve this, she was too good for this, he was going to come to quickly and he ruined her and she was bloody and he’d fucked her up to the point she seemed to have been turned on at the sight of him covered in blood and rabid for a woman he could never do justice to.

She didn’t expect to be on him for more than two minutes. Thank God he loved her to the point of rarely lasting a normal amount of time (unless she really, really demanded it, of course) because her body really was aching, a mixture of a long work day and a boyfriend that had just eaten her out to the point of seeing stars. Andrew had no tears left in his body and when he spilled into her, he did so repeating her name as a grunt, a yell, a scold, a whisper, and then a plea. His hands moved swiftly from her hips to her own hands as they raked across his chest and his abs.

Samira quickly slipped her hands out from between his, wrapping his hand in both of hers and lifting them to her mouth, kissing his knuckles as they dripped from reopened wounds.

“You staying down here tonight?” Andrew nodded. Sniffled. Bit back a whine when she bent down, his come still leaking out of her since she had not gotten off of him yet, and kissed his browbone, nose, chin, mouth, and mouth again. Samira then pulled back, moved her hair out of her face, and removed herself from his lap to fall back onto the bed.

Andrew watched, awestruck, the entire time. It was a good thing, too, because that meant he actually caught the pillow she suddenly tossed down to him.

“Use it,” She told him through a tiny, beautiful yaw, as she settled on her side and faced him half asleep. Andrew inched his body closer to the bed, fulfilling her demand and shoving the pillow under his head.

With a tired ‘hmmph’, he noticed her hand twitched, as if her arm was trying to stretch out to him. Andrew wasn’t sure what it meant and racked his brain- was she hurt? Having a nightmare? Should she see someone? Had he injured her?

Pope could plan bank robberies, yet he’d fumbled a simple operation. He didn’t want the smart, pretty neighbor that he yearned to make life easier for, finding out he had woken up at 5:30am to place her mangled stray into the litterbox (he loathed having something as unhygienic as a litterbox inside his home, but hated the thought of her stray freezing to death even more) before getting aptly bundled up to go clear her windshield off. He’d set the other scraper brush at her door- it didn’t fit in her mailbox- along with the gloves before emptying the kitten’s bowl into a ziploc bag he stuffed into his pocket and heading to her car.

In true Pope manner, he was in the zone shovelling the sidewalks and clearing the car off. So much so, in fact, he missed the sound of her door opening and closing entirely.

“Hey!”

Pope froze and stood stock still from where he’d been brushing the very last spot: the driver’s side mirror. Despite the downy coat his blood ran cold to the bone at being caught, adrenaline pumping almost as much as it had that unfortunate day at the bank when Baz had driven off and sent him to prison. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Maybe run? No, maybe she’ll forget you were there-

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Her voice wasn’t angry, but it sure wasn’t chipper. Quite frankly, if this was the doctor woman (and he guessed it had to be) he was terrified of her. Slowly, he turned to face her from where she stood on the salted stoop in front of her door.

She was very pretty, he thought, and waiting for an answer. Seeing as how he didn’t have one, and it would’ve died on his lips anyways at the sound of her voice, directed at him, coming from the face he’d only seen from one story up- he cleared his throat and tried to conjure up even one good sentence to put her mind at ease.

“I, uh,” Pope licked his lips. When, aside from his words to the kitten last night, had he really spoken to another person? Had it been weeks? Two full months since his move? He went on: “I’m cleanin’ my car off.”

“That’s my car,” Samira looked up and down the street, and around the small lot attached to the apartment building, “And it’s the only red car that’s ever here.”

And he didn’t have anything to say to that because, true to her intellect, she was right. Pope didn’t say anything, just shuffled several steps away from her car. They stood, unmoving, locked in an unspoken stalemate. Then;

“I’m… not mad, and thank you, just… people are creepy, you know? I can’t afford a new car so if you did something to it please just tell me so I can Uber. And there’s nothing worth stealing in there, trust me. Just tell me if you’re gonna take my engine when I’m sleeping so I leave enough time to grab the bus?”

The eyebags under her eyes made sense, and not just because of the inhumane hours she worked. She sounded like a woman at the end of several ropes. Pope wanted to know every single person responsible for driving her to that point. Instead, he looked up from where he’d been staring at her tire. Never at her. Never even near her.

“I ain’t gonna steal from you. I… you’re a doctor, I dunno. Shouldn’t have to… and the sidewalks… and that scraper you had, gonna scrape your windshield.”

Salt crystals crackled under her shoes. He saw them come into his view, not far from the tire, but did not look up or to the side. Better to stare at the tire than see her reaction to him.

“So this was you?” The gloves waved into his line of sight and then back out of it. He didn’t move, nor did he reply. It seemed to give her all the information she required.

“Are you the new neighbor?” She tried instead. Pope shifted his weight to his other foot awkwardly and, having figured this deserved some response, gave one singular nod: up, and then down, almost imperceptible. But she noticed and a hand came into view wearing the gloves he’d purchased. “I’m Samira. Sorry it took me so long to-”

“You work a lot,” Pope blurted before she could finish the utterly unnecessary apology. He finally allowed himself to look almost up and, from the new angle, he could see her face at the top of his vision without risking any eye contact. “Don’t say sorry.”

“Yeah, I… I really do appreciate this, but please don’t feel like you-”

“You gotta warm up your car. I could do it if you slide your keys-” Pope stopped himself. Creepy. Creep. Stop being creepy. Stop being scary. You know how you are. “Your car shouldn’t make the noises it does. I can check it out when you’re back, but… let it warm up, y’know? So you don’t break down. Cold starts aren’t good.”

Her eyebrows raised. They were pretty. Their shape was pretty. Her eyes were so big and beautiful, and she had a dimple (which was weird because it meant she was at least kind of smiling) and a curl fell down from the edge of her coat’s hood. Samira was very pretty, and very nice, he thought, and he liked clearing off her windshield and would very much enjoy continuing to do so.

“I’m Samira,” She repeated and offered a hand out. Pope’s head tilted to the side.

“I know, you already said-” He mumbled, then blinked. Hard.

Stupid.

Weird.

“I’m P- Andrew. Andrew,” He stammered. Without warning he suddenly took a big step past her without shaking her hand, only stopping once she was behind him again to say: “I’m not going to do something bad to your car. I’m not like that. I just… wanted to help you. I…”

Pope debated saying the next part but, since everything else sounded exactly like what a creepy dude planning something sinister would say, he decided a grain of unfortunate truth was fair play. “I don’t have a lot to do. And you seem so busy, I just… just wanted to be neighborly.”

Pope disappeared inside before she could respond. He heard her car start and run for nine minutes before it pulled out of its parking spot.

“This kitten is a sweet little angel. Does she have a name?”

“No. Well, I- I mean, maybe,” Pope said. The vet poking and prodding at her with gloved hands waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, so she went on with the inspection. As she worked, he wondered what doctor neighbor Samira was like at work, wearing rubber gloves and scrubs and a mask and saving patients with needles and whatever the hell else doctors used. She was probably a good, smart doctor, if he guessed.

The vet was turning the writhing, shrieking cat on its back to observe its bubblegum-pink stomach when she spoke and broke Pope from his train of thought. “Well, Mr. James,” Pope cringed; that new name would take some getting used to, “Other than the obvious, she’s in about the best condition she could be.”

“The obvious? You can tell what happened to her?”

The vet’s eyes darkened with a brief flicker of sadness and she adjusted her mask. “You said this was a stray, right?”

Pope nodded.

“Well, it looks like she survived some pretty severe abuse as a newborn. Some surface level scars from a razor blade, intentional burn patches across the body,” Pope must have looked horrified. She added, “Unfortunately, with strays or newborn cats people don’t want… it’s not the first time I’ve seen it. She must have gotten put out quickly, and they probably left her to die, but lucky for her, she lived and found you. So, we’ll have to have her back in soon for a checkup and I’d like to prescribe some-”

Pope was only half listening. He was staring at the little kitten as it made itself as small as possible, shivering against the furthest wall of its carrier. Somebody tried to kill her and afterwards she had to accept food from other humans because she had no other choice.

What if she had ended up in any other alley? What if somebody stopped setting out food for her once they saw her body, mangled in scars, sliced off left ear, past malnourishment, patchy hair, and bald spots?

What if Samira had never been there?

His new fake documents said he was from Pennsylvania, there was a cheap apartment available, and there was no reason for anybody to suspect Pope Cody would end up in Pittsburgh. These three facts, combined, made it the perfect place to get away from his family once and for all.

The apartment itself was as shitty as the neighborhood it resided in- perfect to lay low in- with its leaking faucets and landlord special paintjob, providing him countless odd tasks to fulfill his overwhelming off time. Being in the apartment for too long without anything to do turned it into yet another imprisonment; Pope didn’t know who he was when he wasn’t tasked with something to do. So a broken lightbulb here, an in-unit dryer with a broken drum belt there? It was a small mercy amidst the hectic nature of his grand escape.

He missed his brothers. He missed surfing. He missed weather that wasn’t miserable or as everchanging as Pittsburgh’s. He missed Lena most of all. But, when he was free to do what he wanted, or not do something he didn’t want to? When he spent his first full day in a sparsely furnished apartment without a person in his ear treating him like an attack dog? The grief that came with the life he left behind melted into great relief. It was him and, sure, he was alone, but that was what he wanted and, most days, he felt it was certainly what he deserved. Alone, with more money than he knew what to do with, no threat to his life, and time to learn about himself. Time to live maybe, finally, in peace.

Peace was best found on the balcony. Of course, Pope enjoyed walks and runs through the parks as they crisped with late autumn’s arrival, or the serenity that came with a monotonous odd job around the apartment, or lifting weights and boxing. More than all that, though, he cherished the view the balcony gave him. It was the closest he got to reliving a shred of his before life. From the vantage point of the small, dilapidated balcony, he oversaw his domain in its entirety. He couldn’t help but memorize the cars that were there day after day, or start logging when one tenant might arrive versus another, or watch the process of the shops open and the nearby street parking fill up. He watched on more than one occasion as the landlord was handed rent in an envelope full of wrinkled bills of every denomination, making him thankful he wasn’t the only one to pay in that nature. He took note of every possible concern, anything of note; but, over the course of the month he had been living here, one balcony saga stuck out from the rest.

There was a stray cat. It was shockingly tiny, with patchy fur and, from his best guess at a distance, bald spots from being somehow mangled. It looked like it was a human’s doing. Pope felt bad for the cat, especially because of its apparent youth. Pope felt like any human that would hurt something so helpless deserved to be thrown into wet cement, alive, and left inside as it hardened. The little kitten was strong, too, if it was willing to come around a human street after whatever had been done to it.

The stray returned because there was also a woman. A doctor woman. A doctor woman who was always at work- made sense, with the whole doctor thing- and still made time, even after twenty four hours straight of working, to be the type of person who set small dishes of cat food in the alley outside their apartment building.

The doctor had big brown eyes and spoke a pretty language on the phone sometimes. She’d walk into the apartment with one hand holding the phone while her opposite arm carried a bag of premium kitten food indoors, still wearing scrubs because that was all she ever seemed to wear. On the days she was gone a full 24 hours that kitten would begin to linger in the alley, meowing around the 8 or 9pm point, until it would slink away with its head hung low. So, as his personal service to healthcare workers and not because it made him sad to think the kitten might not put on good weight despite the doctor’s best efforts, Pope ended up going to the grocery store and stalking the aisles until he arrived in front of a wall of brightly colored pet food. The next time the doctor wasn’t home by 8:30 he slipped outside and refilled it with the same kibble (the doctor had to know what was best for the kitten’s stomach, so he trusted her choice of food) and a slice of turkey breast from his fridge.

Then there was a week where she worked multiple double shifts. The hospital on her lanyard, the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, didn’t normally do 24 hour shifts for the emergency department according to the internet. So it had to be her covering extra shifts on top of her normal schedule, which he could only hope wasn’t the result of financial stress, since asking their landlord if he could secretly pay two month’s rent for her might put eyes on Pope that he didn’t want. Whatever the case, it left her unavailable to go grocery shopping, and it took her two weeks to go through the last bag and it had been three weeks since she’d brought one home. After several hours spent peeling the landlord’s flaking paint off of his electrical outlets he went back to the store, got a bag, and dropped it at her doorstep for when she returned.

Pope made sure to be inside at 7:30am when her car pulled into the lot, but he heard from below him the sound of her dropping the bag inside her apartment. Fifteen minutes later he heard the unmistakable creaking and squeaking of her shower turning on- an easy fix he’d handled his third day- and Pope took it as his cue to stop listening. He slipped outside and headed to the gym to work off the thrill in his chest.

Winter arrived early that year. Pope had been dreading it, considering that he was a California boy through and through- not one particle of the Codys was meant to be subjected to the snow. The days were growing drearier and the weather was taunting the city, approaching the point of snowfall on several occasions and then backing off just to leave layers of icy frost on windows and windshields. The first time sure enough, he woke up just before 6am in early November to a blanket of pure white covering Pittsburgh. He silently watched the weightlessness of the snowflakes as they gradually fell and covered the city in a blanket of pure white, but this wonder was rudely interrupted at 6:30am by an awful, grating sound coming from the parking lot.

Pope set down the jar of pomade he was about to finish running through his hair and stalked across the apartment to his window to see a horrible sight: the doctor woman, without gloves, struggling to scrape off her windows with a broken windshield brush. On top of that? There was no way her engine was warmed up and the car must’ve been even colder than outside, because he didn’t hear the car run for more than three minutes total before she drove off.

Pope Cody found all of these facts unacceptable. So, he went to the store and purchased two windshield scrapers with a brush on the opposite side, sidewalk salt, a snow shovel, insulated gloves, an animal carrier, and a cat collar with a bow. With the list acquired he did what he did best, and got to work until the sidewalk was clear. The snow had continued to relentlessly pile on as the day progressed so he went back out at 6:50pm to clear it again and his efforts paid off when the woman arrived to a reserved parking spot and walkway so clear of snow and freshly salted, she had half a mind to be suspicious. Pope watched, crouched and behind the safety of his bedroom window, as she slowly looked around and took in the fact that her sketchy apartment complex was the only place as far as the eye could see that was perfectly shovelled and salted. She shrugged after a few seconds, hugged her puffer coat closer to herself, and disappeared in the apartment below him. Pope even watched her traipse right back out to refill the cat’s bowl.

Pope finally pulled the curtain shut. He ate microwavable chicken and broccoli, showered, and smoothed his bed before pulling the comforter back so the corner became perfectly triangular. Finally, he climbed in, turned his lamp off, then on, then off again, and turned over to face the meowing cat carrier. Sticking a finger and rubbing the fun-sized, mewling animal, he said: “I’ll empty it in the morning, so she knows you ate. Then we gotta go get your shots at 9:30.”

Children’s screams were, just for tonight, a familiar and even welcome ambience. Instead of causing Samira’s heart to race and her medical-mind self to kick into gear, the shrieks fit perfectly into the surrounding chaos: a pig with one perfect curl for a tail oinking as its preteen handler tried to usher it out of a mud pit and into its pen; families splitting plates of fried dough coated in cinnamon and syrup; jankety rides hurtling by at too-high speeds; parents divvying out ride tickets; a teenage boy trying (and failing) to win a teddy bear for the other half of his first date.

“If I had better eyesight,” Jack remarked as the boy missed the sixth straight dart throw, “I’d win you that.”

Her eyes rolled far enough back to see the sickened participants of the swing ride at its peak. “Always the gentleman. Is that why you brought me here? You want to woo me-”

“I always want to woo you.”

“With teddy bears and cotton candy?”

“Woah, hey, the cotton candy’s for me,” He playfully hugged the monster sized cotton candy to his torso and away from her grasp, easing up enough for her to tear away a portion swirled with pink and blue. “That’s the reason we came to the carnivals every year, because you sure as hell couldn’t pay me to ride any of this shit. Come to the first carnival of the season, share a lemonade and an extra large bag of cotton candy, and look at the cows.”

“I should’ve guessed you were the type of manly man who was terrified of rollercoasters and carnival rides.”

“Hey!” When Jack whirled to face her, Samira’s face was already creasing with hardly contained laughter at his defensiveness. “Rollercoasters and carnival rides are totally different, and coasterphobia is real-”

“Coasterphobia?! You know the term?!”

“I’m a doctor! And by the way, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a prosthetic, so being scared of carnival rides-”

“Yeah, you’re right. Ferris wheels are famous for that sort of thing.”

“There is nobody on the face of this Earth that could get me onto that,” He jutted his empty hand to point at the ferris wheel they had, earlier, debated riding, with Samira deeming it the safest, most normal ride at the carnival. Evidently her boyfriend- who had concealed his phobia until tonight- disagreed. While they made their way to the central food court of the fairgrounds, he added, “I had a cousin who was a carny for three summers and he was the dumbest person I’ve ever met. Also the highest.”

“Oh, I was going to ask why you hung out with him if he was so dumb, but now I know.”

Jack’s defensiveness didn’t override the instinctive smirk at the memory of his high school days. “It was the eighties!”

“God,” She laughed, “How old are you?”

“Old enough for a beer. My arms are full- how about you get us drinks, and I’ll grab us a seat?”

Samira cast a look down his right leg where, underneath his clothing, his prosthetic was no doubt irritating him as it mixed with the sweat and heat of the night. Meeting his eyes again she nodded, accepted the wallet Jack wormed out of his back pocket, and took her place in line. As much as she adored Jack, or anyone else in this life, Samira craved safety in solitude.

Since Jack had come into her life, her attitude towards solitude had changed entirely. It had gone from a constant ache, caused by its unwillingness and her powerlessness to it, to something she could now voluntarily lean into. No longer did she spend weeks without saying another word to a human being outside of work; now, with Jack, she had come to view being by herself as a gift. Now, she got to pick and choose when to keep herself as her sole company, and treasure moments like this; the difference between alone and lonely had become a thing of beauty at the hands of Jack Abbot.

As the night was winding down, the beer truck had, evidently, been running dry. What started as a plan to get two beers had been thwarted; when she found the picnic table he was occupying she was holding one glass.

“They were out of basically everything,” She sighed, “So I hope you enjoy… this.”

Understandably, Jack’s brow lifted at her unsure tone. What was there to be unsure of? Beer was beer. In the time provided by his hesitation she took her seat and lifted the cup to his lips. It looked like beer, it smelled like beer; so why had she trailed off in that mysterious way? Why-

He gulped down a sip and nearly coughed it back up. “The hell is that?!” Jack spluttered, grinning to match Samira.

“Fried cotton candy Oreo and funnel cake beer.”

Jack blinked.

“I didn’t hear you say that.”

“Cotton candy oreos,” She explained, slower, “Fried, with funnel cake. All in one beer. Does it taste amazing?”

“I have never tasted anything sweeter in my entire life- well,” Samira scoffed as his eyes raked down to her lap. Immature. “And, there is absolutely no alcohol in that. Whatever that is, it’s not beer.”

“Well, I don’t want any, so drink up.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. That’s not fair. You- it’s basically juice, Mohan, it’s only fair you split it with me, c’mon-”

“Jack-”

“There you go,” He only set the glass down after she’d drank it. Expectedly, her expression cringed, twisting up with a hissing breath.

“I don’t like beer. That is not beer, but I still don’t like it.”

“Attagirl. But tell you what, I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Samira nodded, though he couldn’t see when he was mid-chug. “Economical. I like that about you,” She hummed, watching like a hawk as he licked a drop of the sickly sweet beer off his lips and handed her back the monstrosity of a beverage. “I feel like it should be pink, you know? If it tastes this crazy.”

“Yeah, that would fix it. Even though it tastes awful, is overly expensive, and has no alcohol in it.”

“For all this sugar, you’d at least expect a buzz.”

“I love bad fair food, but a shitty beer that doesn’t even get you drunk is where I cross the line.”

Twenty minutes later, Samira and Jack were discovering the joys of navigating a hectic carnival parking lot at closing time while being unexpectedly drunk.

“This guy’s a creep,” Jack said, “Get the next driver.”

“Every driver on Uber looks like a creep. Isn’t that what you’re there for?” She kept the slur out of her voice. Mostly. “Wait, wait, what?! I forgot he was doing this, this is perfect- here, what about-”

“Creep!” Samira gave Jack a look that could kill.

“That’s Dr. Whitaker, Jack. From the day shift.”

“He’s blonde and he drives a pickup truck. Next, or, we’ll just walk home-”

“Oh my god. Fine, what about-”

“Ma’am, do you need help? Is this guy bothering you?” They both turned on a dime to face the stranger rushing to Samira’s defense. She was half tempted to take up the offer and get rid of Jack, who tended to get extra clingy when tipsy. Once they turned around Samira quickly shed his arm from around her waist, taking three large steps towards the familiar figure of Parker Ellis.

“Ellis?! What are you doing here, you freaked me out!” She beamed, watching as Jack similarly playfully scolded her. Ellis gestured towards the carnival exit as it overflowed with sugarsick children and their parents, fending off migraines from the rides they had been forced to go on.

“I was supposed to pick up my nephew. He’s going to a friend’s, though,” Ellis said. She noticed Samira’s phone and the ride app displayed onscreen. “Need a ride?”

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Jack told her as they reached the parked sedan. While helping Samira down into her seat he added, “Don’t tell Shen.”

“I’m telling Gloria!” A familiar voice sang from the back seat. Jack ducked into the car and slapped Shen, sitting in the passenger’s seat, on the shoulder. Amidst the excitement the lemonade Samira had been placing into a cupholder jostled to the point of spilling several droplets onto her calf. When Jack withdrew to settle in his seat, he noticed her dabbing her jacket cuff on her leg. One inquisitive look and Samira gesturing to the lemonade caused a look of understanding to dawn on him.

“Shen! Come here. Santos is here, let’s each go to an exit and find her,” Ellis peeked back, “You two, stay in the car. I’lk turn the air conditioning on. Do not,” She eyed Jack, “Mess my car up, or do any gross stuff.”

“Nothing to worry about, Ellis. We’re just really good friends,” Jack murmured between himself and his girlfriend, ignoring Parker’s immediate eye roll (tonight, especially, he seemed to have a particular talent for eliciting those) and the closing of the car door as Shen left to do Ellis’ bidding. Left alone, Jack’s mind drifted to doing what Jack Abbot had always done best; causing trouble on the basis of a woman out of his league.

Samira glanced over to Jack at the feeling of his hand wrapping round her calf and lifting it up onto his lap over what little empty space existed between them. “Lot of it get on you?”

“No,” Her leg buzzed around the grasp of his fingers drifting down to her ankle and holding on to it, “Just the last few drops.”

With a low hum, Jack raked his eyes over the exposed skin of her thigh, down to her knee, then over the calf. After giving her ankle a few taps and a feather light tightening of his grip he lifted, slowly, waiting for any sort of protest. Samira gave none and, on the contrary, straightened her leg out to make it easier, asking, “If you lick my leg, I think I’ll get sick.”

“Think?”

She shrugged, a tipsy smile on display. “Maybe I’ll find it hot,” She said.

Any exploration of that possibility was interrupted by fingers tapping the window and a muffled, “Parker, they are!” or, “My eyes! My eyes!” or, “Abbot, you’ve corrupted her!” from Shen and Santos. Jack, without letting go of Samira’s ankle, rolled his window down with a shit-eating grin and chastised them. As they continued to cry out to Parker (and, coming into view alongside her, Garcia) of the horrors they were witnessing, Jack argued back. With the way-too-strong beer still empowering his more mischievous ways, Jack gave up all hope of controlling the situation and lifted her calf to his open mouth to playfully bite.

After a shocked yelp at the sudden action, Samira’s laughter multiplied tenfold, mixing with the cacophony of reactions from all but Garcia.

“Okay, as far as the seat situation is going, those two are getting their own seats. No more freaky shit in my car- don’t make me need to buy a blacklight,” Ellis opened all the doors on the passenger side and they all began to figure out the complexities of who would sit where, how. It ended with Jack, Samira, and Garcia in the backseat with Trinity on her lap. SHen resumed his spot in the passenger seat and, after Santos ducked to evade any law enforcement seeing their less than legal seating arrangement, they were off on the optimal route to drop everyone off where they needed to be.

If figuring out the seating arrangement and introducing Garcia and Santos into the mix had been chaotic, the ride itself defied description. Garcia was gossiping with Abbot about the rumored feud between Park the Shark and Walsh, Shen and Mohan were discussing how fucked the day shift was compared to the night shift and how silly people with claustrophobia were (a pinch in her side let her know Abbot heard even if he didn’t break conversation or eye contact with Garcia), and Santos updated Ellis on the latest state of Pittsburgh’s gay bars. Ten minutes after they’d escaped the traffic leaving the fairgrounds, Abbot heard Santos mention her favorite karaoke spot in the city.’

“I even took Mel there last summer, after,” She paused, glancing at the woman currently serving as her seat, her arms wrapped around Santos for stability, “After that awful shift on the fourth of July.”

“I won a karaoke competition in undergrad,” Abbot piped up. All at once, the conversation in the car died down until all that could be heard was the music Ellis had quietly turned on. Mohan was the first to laugh, but it was Ellis that planted the first seed of an idea.

“What song?”

No response.

“Abbot,” Shen turned to face him, smiling wide enough for him and Ellis both. “What song?”

“Well… there were three rounds.”

Santos’ mouth dropped, along with everyone else’s, and she murmured, “Oh my God,” as Garcia began to fight back laughter of her own.

“Round one was And I Will Always Love You; round two, I Need a Hero; and for the first place finale, ” He sighed, though nobody in the car knew how the two of those could be topped based on the shocked gasps that followed, “Like a Prayer. The… the Madonna song,” Jack trailed off over the immediate howls and shrieks of laughter. Other than Samira, not many living people got to see a bashful Jack Abbot; but sure enough, as they all tried and failed to catch their breath between raucous laughter, he turned red and faced out the window to clear his throat.

“I can’t believe Doctor- Doctor Jack Abbot, of the PTMC, once won a karaoke competition by singing Like a Prayer.”

“I was raised Christian. Besides, I didn’t win because of my singing,” Everyone hushed, turning to him once more. As it was a red light, even Ellis craned her neck around to witness what he was about to reluctantly admit. “I took my shirt off.”

“Oh my God,” Samira covered her mouth in horror as the car went ten times crazier than before.

“The judges were a bunch of sorority girls, and I was ripped in college,” He defended himself over their rowdiness.

“But you were also ginger,” Shen pointed out, “Tit for tat.”

“He’s still ripped,” Samira said.

Jack kissed her cheek. “Yeah, what she said.”

“Oh God. You being ginger explains so, so much,” Garcia said.

“I figured you came out of the womb with gray hair,” Santos added, ignoring the playful glare he shot her way.

Shen held a hand out to garner focus. “There’s a karaoke place right by my apartment, which is her first stop. Just saying.”

Maybe it was the spirit of shitty, overly sweet “beer” with much more alcohol in it than any normal alcoholic beverage had, or the fact that Santos guaranteed Mel would show up if asked. All anyone knew was fifteen minutes later, the karaoke bar beneath John Shen’s apartment was full of doctors who finally had a night off.

True to her word, Santos loudly announced the arrival of Mel right before dragging Abbot onstage for a tipsy reenactment of his “I Need a Hero” performance. Santos did most of the performing and- what would become a common theme as the night progressed- they all ended up onstage before the song ended. A solo from Shen; Something Stupid for Mohan and Abbot; a duet of a song Jack had never heard of from Garcia and Santos; in response the nearly empty bar occasionally clapped, or groaned at the song choice, but they were rowdy enough to compensate for their lackluster audience. The drinks were flowing- even Mel sipped at someone else’s amaretto sour here and there- and right when they agreed to call it a night, concluding they were all far too old to be drinking and karaoke-ing past midnight, Ellis held a hand up.

“Wait, wait. It’s only fair we end this night one way. Jack, finish your beer.”

Jack warily followed Ellis’ instruction. Right when he set the bottle down was when the first chord played of a familiar guitar riff.

“No. Absolutely n-”

Samira and Mel both cut him off, with the others all quickly joining in for the opening lyrics to the Madonna song that had haunted him since college. He reluctantly joined, though nobody made any move to get up from where they’d been gathering their belongings around a large booth. All seven of them sang an emphatic, off-key, drunkenly lousy rendition of Like a Prayer, and no shirts were removed, marking the first (and only) logical decision made all night.

Shen retired to his apartment with the offer of a couch to crash on which Ellis was quick to accept. Mel was sober enough to drive home, dropping Santos and Garcia off along the way. Sitting on a bench in front of the bar, it wasn’t until he saw their car drive off safely that Jack reached for his phone to book a ride home.

“Any of these drivers meet your standards, or are they too creepy?” Samira leaned into his side with a yawn.

“When I’m this beat, there are no standards. Looks like… Hannah will be meeting us at that corner in four minutes. Driving a lime green PT cruiser with a vanity plate,” He cocked his head, “Naturally.”

Pushing herself off the bench to stand in front of it, she offered a languid hand out to Jack and began to leisurely saunter to the pickup corner.

“I can’t believe we just did any of that,” Samira said. Jack used his free hand to take her bag from her free hand; luckily they didn’t have to carry the monster sized cotton candy, since the group had been picking at it over the last two hours. “I guess I forget how fun stuff like that can be. Normally, it doesn’t sound that fun at all.”

“Everything in moderation. I’m a bit too old to party like that, but once in a while, you find the people that make it worth it,” They came to a stop under the only street lamp that hadn’t flickered in the entire time they were outside. Samira rested her back against the post and kicked a leg up for leverage, a warm smile on her face as their eyes met. Each curl on his head glowed in the silhouette of the light overhead; a beautiful, heavenly glow surrounding him. For Jack it was even more glorious; when he angled his head just right she was cast in the golden hue that he always viewed her in, even if it was 2am under the harsh hospital fluorescents. She looked like an angel which, Jack thought, was how she looked all the time anyways.

DO NOT BURN YOUR BREAKFAST.

The first day the eggs will burn. Trudging, slothlike, into the kitchen, in which the cans of ingredients for their chili had been dutifully laid out before her shift, never to be opened, you will stand without moving for several minutes in front of the stove. Move the soup pot aside unceremoniously. Get out a pan instead, lob some butter in, and stand some more. The acrid scent of burning eggs will alert you to the fact you still exist.

It’s too late to save them, and there’s little to no point to be found in making new ones. Scrape the spongelike char onto the first clean dish you can reach and douse it in Tabasco, then choke half of it down before dumping it in the sink. Usually, you worry about leaving a dish in the sink- you never wanted to act as though she needed to clean up after you. No use worrying about giving her that impression now.

KEEP BUSY.

Pick up extra shifts. Volunteer at the VFW on Friday night date nights. Leave the TV on when you shower or go to bed or finally clean your bedsheets or do your laundry for the first time since your wife died (not because you never did it when she was alive, but because you would rather boil yourself alive than do anything on an Earth without her) because maybe you will zone out and think about anything besides the sight of your wife’s lifeless brains and guts and bone and flesh. Pretend the ambient noise from that show, filtered through several rooms and the length of the main hallway, is anything compared to the soundtrack of your life with her. When your dog sneezes and you do nothing, take three minutes before realizing the walls of your home have not heard the words “bless you” since she left.

Tell your dog “bless you.”

Discover that bratty, spoiled little dogs do not like the implication they need to be blessed for something as natural as sneezing.

FEED THE DOG.

Groom the hair growing in tufts out her triangular ears. Coo to the creature words of how great it must be to finally be his favorite- by default of being the only- woman in the house. When one of the dog’s winter coats rips or the rhinestone bow pops off the collar, do not curse the fact your wife never smacked you over the head and forced you to learn to use the sewing machine. Decide to step into the room full of her hobbies for the first time, your quivering dog tucked under your arm. Laugh at the dog being smaller than the machine that sat one month abandoned with your favorite button up shirt, ripped at the sleeve after an anniversary date night, half-mended under the sewing needle. Reach for the shiny fabric she snagged from a flea market in Paris, 2014, stating she had big plans for it one day.

Do not get annoyed when you are interrupted by the dog that slipped away and started barking from her food bowl. Stop crying. Put the fabric down. Open the mostly empty fridge and take out the only thing keeping said fridge from being completely barren- the dog food. Crack the last egg, toss in the shell, sob at the dinner table as the dog chows down.

DISCOVER THAT CEMETERIES HAVE CLOSING TIMES.

No, it’s not common knowledge, actually. Even if it was, nobody believed it would ever be enforced, right? You mean to stop by, really just stop by to fix a flower and use your keys to dig any gravel and filth that wormed its way into her name and her epitaph. She never believed in “never step on a grave” because she believed the dead would want a hug, or at least the living to cherish the feeling of grass blades between their toes and tickling their heels. You were always unnerved by it but now you will think you start to get it. Against better judgement, you will sink down and press your cheek to the soil. When you do it you can hear blood rush to your ear and with it comes your heartbeat but you wise up in a moment and trick yourself into believing it isn’t your heartbeat at all, but hers. Whatever science couldn’t use of her sits feet below, entombed by dirt you traitorously helped shovel, and still, beats for you. Towards you.

A boot will nudge your own.

Do not: flinch and jump twenty feet in the air and cuss and remember a time where such sudden disturbances came when you were dressed in olive drab with a red cross sewn onto your bicep.

Do: nod and apologize and silently thank the groundskeeper for looking anywhere but your puffy eyes and tears mixing with dirt on your cheekbone. Leave without fuss. Sit at the entrance as the night turns pitch black.

GET KICKED OUT OF A CEMETERY.

Doug is a good groundskeeper. Don’t trick him by pretending to leave on the six month anniversary of your best friend’s death, then sneak back in. He will find you with haste, load you into the passenger seat of his John Deere side-by-side, and tote you to the entrance.

“You know the time,” He will say as he padlocks the gate from the inside, “Dusk to dawn. They gotta rest too.”

BREAK INTO A CEMETERY.

“I’ll be out in thirty minutes.”

“Nope.”

“Doug, please, it’s tradition, don’t- hey, stay in the ATV, you don’t gotta- Doug,” You will gesture to the (admittedly less than stellar) display of candles and bread on her grave, “She’d kill me if I didn’t. It’s once a year. You can’t let me do this? You know me, man. Thirty minutes, or she really will come back and kill me.”

Doug grunts. Heaves himself back into the driver’s seat, pulls his cap closer to his receding hairline. “For the love of- I wish she would,” He huffs. This means you won. His fingerless gloves point at you, waving a chubby finger: “Thirty minutes and then I’m really calling the fuzz, guy.”

Pick up your phone and continue playing the song she slapped you if you played without warning because it always made her cry. You won’t do it well, but sing along with Juan Gabriel anyways as you run your fingers over the name and words engraved on the stone before you. Her favorite version was the one that was 7 minutes, 8 seconds. She liked hearing him get further away from the mic as he cried at the 5:40 mark. The swell as the audience clapped and whooped through their cheers 6 minutes in. The audience of the Palacio de Bellas Artes taking over for him 3 and a half minutes in.

She was never able to translate the lyrics without crying, but you figured one day she’d get there and everything sounded better coming from her. You will never be able to stomach the idea of searching the lyrics up. You understand enough from the title of the song- “Amor Eterno”

More than enough.

CONTACT THE PROPER CHANNELS TO CLOSE CREDIT OR DEBIT CARDS SOLELY BELONGING TO YOUR WIFE (DEAD).

Don’t do this. Yet.

REMEMBER HOW IT FEELS TO CRY UNTIL YOU GASP FOR AIR.

There’s a moment where your stomach will contract so painfully from lack of oxygen that you will think you are dying. It will feel great. You will think about how excited you are to die and hold her again. You want her to hug you, laugh at you when you trip over a pebble on the sidewalk and try (to no avail) playing it off so she doesn’t notice, yell at you, sit silently across the room and read in peace while you do the same. You were never religious, even when mom and dad wanted you to be as a little boy shoved into Sunday school. The animal crackers were good though.

As your chest contracts, contracts, contracts, you begin to wonder if Heaven is real. If it is, she’s there, and you’re meant to be with her, so maybe you will make the cut.

You decide to stop reaching for the car keys to go to the emergency room because you think Heaven might be a big, warm room with her curled up on a sofa. The flip of her book’s page is an angel’s song. She doesn’t even look up when you occupy the cushion next to her, or when the dog hops side from side waiting for her to hook her foot under its torso and lift it onto her lap. Her breathing stutters on occasion from a funny or shocking or poorly written (sometimes she tells you, otherwise she lets it exist only for her) line. She coughs and once in a while you reply to such an action with a stupid quip like “Geez, could you be quiet for a change?” and you love when she smacks the book or binder or packet or tablet against your head or shoulder or bicep or knee.

That’s probably Heaven, you know, so you’re okay with your lungs collapsing. Except they don’t. You’ll be fine. You’ll cry this hard, as in newborn-baby levels of crying, a lot. Sometimes the gap between these episodes is a few hours, sometimes it’s a few months, but it’s never far away.

A thought will occur to you immediately when she dies: You can’t kill yourself yet. Not while the dog is alive. When you cry this hard you remind yourself of it. You don’t mind when an asshole in a pickup truck (the hell do they have to haul in suburban Pittsburgh?) decides they’re better than a stop sign and nearly causes a T-Bone collision that would’ve killed you if they managed to be any more incompetent. You wish you hadn’t stopped, or they hadn’t stopped, whichever one would’ve caused a crash and sent you back to her.

DO NOT LOOK AT YOUR PHOTOS OF YOUR WIFE (DEAD).

She would have eaten you like a shark to chum. Even missing half her teeth she stands, chest puffed towards the camera with a sure child’s gusto, and her hands on her hips like a superhero readying for battle, she’s a stunner. Good thing she met you decades later, because that girl would’ve chewed up your puppy love and spit it out like stale bubblegum. You would’ve spent your entire childhood writing her love letters and loving when, subsequently, she beat you up at recess because the teacher scolded you for passing notes. It would’ve continued into middle school, when society began to tame the bite she’d been given extra of at birth. Then she really would’ve whooped you. Your notes would’ve just gotten longer, into high school, where she’d leave you high and dry because, wow, was she gorgeous.

There’s something in her eyes that you could never pinpoint, medically or emotionally. A spark, maybe, though even that description doesn’t begin to do it justice. It’s in every photo, but it will astonish you to see it’s been there ever since the grainy photo taken of her after birth. Her eyes aren’t even open in that one. She’s a cringing, slimy, wailing alien-looking thing. And it’s there, because it was always there. What was it?

You will imagine digging her up and prying open her lids as if the eyeballs would be intact beneath them. You will wonder if that spark, glint, knowledge, motivation, whatever it was, is still there.

(You don’t have to dig her up to know it is.)

FORGET THE SOUND OF YOUR WIFE (DEAD).

You will make a bad joke. A nurse will laugh and snort and feel ashamed of the fact she snorted. She’ll say she sounds like a pig. You will look up with a grin and start to tell her about the time you made your wife laugh so hard, the spicy paloma she’d been sipping shot right through her nose. Through snot, spicy paloma, and tears of laughter and indignity, she made you promise you still loved her and didn’t want to end your marriage of 13 years over something she deemed to be “beyond gross”.

Telling the story will make you feel like you’re regaling your friends with the tale at a barbecue, compared to the reality that you were reminiscing at the nurse’s hub. This feeling will be so convincing that your atoms will rearrange, waiting for her to chastise you for telling that story, and smack you playfully on your greying head with an empty paper plate while demanding you shut up. When it doesn’t happen, your atoms will buzz around all night.

Something’s missing.

Something’s missing because, in this imaginary scenario, she would’ve laughed while declaring her hatred for you and smacking you with the plate. So why hadn’t your brain thought that up?

What was her laugh like? Not the waxing poetic on how it made you feel- that, that you could never forget. But how did it sound factually? The pitch? Tone? Rhythm?

You don’t remember her laugh.

You call her number for the first time. You heard about people doing it but it seemed desperate, even for you, and you certainly don’t want a stranger to pick up. You’re rational. Won’t keep paying for a number somebody else could put to use.

Click. Voicemail. There she is. Professional. Call back later, please and thank you. Beep.

Okay, but you want her laugh, right? Finally crack open the videos you haven’t been strong enough to watch. Realize you’re terrified to turn the volume up. It’s a video you took of the Grand Canyon. While panning around, catching it all on video to send over to your best friend, you trip on a pebble. Your wife laughs raucously. Whistles a descending tone with a clap at the end to imply what would’ve happened if you tripped off the cliff, past the guard rail, and plummeted into the canyon à la Wile E. Coyote.

One day you find out you can cast videos from your phone to your television. You finally play more videos. Her sway-filled attempt to dance with her dad after one too many glasses of wine at Christmas 2018, the garage camera footage of her petting a raccoon she thought was their neighbor’s cat and then shrieking loud enough to wake up the state. Her holding rescue baby Miski for the first time, still in front of the dumpster you both fished her from, extending the shivering pup to the camera and warning the world that she was going to make so many doggy outfits for your new precious princess. Her in Japan lifting a glob of wasabi to her mouth based on a weak dare you knew she was stubborn enough to prove herself capable of nonetheless. Her discovering she hated wasabi and it was spicier than expected, remaining as quiet and respectful as possible in the booth as you both combust into stifled laughs, and she kicked you under the table and hissed how hot it was and how unfunny she found your dare despite her laughter. She took the camera and turned it on you when you agreed to try some, dabbing a small amount onto a piece of sushi you ate without problem. She called you a cheating asshole she should’ve never married. You watched yourself shift when she playfully kicked your shin out of the camera’s view. She was snickering as she found the button to end the video.

You forget the sound of her voice and her singing and wonder if it’s a blessing or a curse you have so much of it archived at your fingertips. You don’t like going through her phone but she sent a voice message to her friend back at home that you’d found purely by accident, trying to find her list of online passwords in her notes and files applications. The context was unclear but after 30 seconds of unrelated conversation she cut herself off to catcall you. After all, there was nothing quite like light objectification to keep a marriage afloat.

“Woo, hey, get over here, hot piece of ass! Yeah, you! Hey, take your shirt off! Woohoohoo!” She cheered and chirped, “Sorry, girl, I think he’s just getting better with age. Gotta let them know, you know? Oh, he- he took the shirt off,” She laughed, “God, you know him. What an idiot. I love him. Anyways,” And on she went with the unrelated conversation.

You forward that voice message to yourself. If you forget her laughter, you listen to it. You wonder how stupid it is to cry over a voice memo where your wife calls you a hot piece of ass.

When the dog is restless, you learn to play a video of her singing karaoke. She had always been a better singer than she gave herself credit for. You didn’t understand the words, but Miski calmed. Whined, whimpered, snuggled into your chest.

You miss her too, you tell the dog. You both stare at the screen as the video loops. You don’t dare let it play a third time, and the room goes pitch black when you set the phone on the nightstand. Miski lets out a depressed, defeated sigh. She knows it isn’t your fault. You don’t.

TRY NOT TO PASS OUT WHEN A WOMAN AT THE GROCERY STORE CHECKOUT IS WEARING THE SAME PERFUME YOUR WIFE (DEAD) WORE.

You hate when people get into mini self checkout lanes clearly intended as unspoken express aisles- 5, 10, 15 items max- with 7 full carts of groceries. Luckily for you, everyone in this store decides to do this at every single self checkout kiosk in the store. You will learn that 3pm on a Sunday is not the prime time for picking up dog food, eggs, 2/$3 blueberries, and beer.

You know it’s immature to scoff, but you’re tempted to. Your own miniature protest. As you pass the worst of them all, the scoff will die on your tongue. Both blueberry cartons will get sent flying to the floor with the abruptness of your full body stop. Your eyes get it before your brain does, because they’ll already be watering when you recognize the scent of one of your wife’s many perfumes. The blueberries will go everywhere and you will be embarrassed to the point of the tears spilling over. Only one or two do. The employees are nice, too nice, tripping over themselves to insist they clean it up and you keep checking out. You insist you don’t want more, and you’ll pay for it anyways, but they scamper off to bring back two cartons. While they do, the mother’s card will decline. Twice. Three times. You will lean over and tap a card to the reader without announcement. You don’t breathe. You don’t wait for a goodbye or thank you or promise to pay it forward. It’s two seconds and the woman doesn’t have time to blink before you’re out of the store with a woven reusable bag draped over your shoulder. You will open your wallet to stow the card. It will be your wife’s. The next day you will have it closed.

STOP THINKING YOUR WIFE (DEAD) IS STILL ALIVE AFTER WAKING UP.

You both worked the day shift but she was better about waking up to stretch, give herself time to rise to the day’s occasions. Actually, she didn’t work a rigid 12 hours like you- part of her fancy oncology schedule. She often had breakfast and always a cup and thermos of coffee for you. You will keep forgetting you need to set your alarm earlier to make your own coffee and your own, much less delicious and nutritious, breakfast.

You think you hear the creak of the one loose floorboard on the walkaround porch she’d begged for (not that she had to) as she does her yoga. It’s warm out Of course she would start going outside this time of year instead of being confined to the living room. You turn over, sleep still crusted along your waterline, wondering what skin tight workout set she might have chosen for the day.

It’s not your wife in a delightfully expensive workout set. It’s the fattest raccoon you’ll ever see, chowing down on a delicious looking hunk of brisket, tiny fingers shredding the tender, juicy, meat and scarfing down the charred, seasoned bark. You work night shifts now, which means you’re making coffee right around the time your neighbor gets back, discovers he left his smoker open, and curses enough to make a sailor blush. Not as good as seeing your wife in a side plank, but a pick-me-up courtesy of her, if the dead can really send messages.

Working the night shift is your best bet. You can pretend you didn’t have a say in being stuck on nights, and when you return after a long day to an empty house, you can say your wife has already left for her day shift. The illusion of having just missed each other will help you get by. Whenever you start to feel especially alone you can scratch your dog on its apple-sized head and say that mom is just at work, and darn, how sad your work schedule works out so that you never see each other any more.

WAIT UNTIL MORNING.

You will go home the first night and nothing will seem real. You will feel entrapped in gelatin. You will end up in bed, wearing jeans (the jeans you identified your wife’s dead body in) under the covers. Your shoes might still be on. Your dog thinks mom might just be on a girls trip and has no reason to worry, though this will change if/when you reach an arm over to the empty space on the mattress she should be occupying and break down. The dog will whine and curl up on your chest. You will cry yourself out. You will have no tears left. You will open your phone because there is nothing else to do.

You will ignore the few texts you have.

Were you expecting hundreds? Almost nobody knows she’s died, yet, remember? For a lot of the world she’s still alive. You will be kind and let the night pass. Maybe a few hours after noon, to get mourners out of work early without spoiling their day right off the bat.

You think to yourself that you should enjoy her family being the only people contacting you right now. Her death is the last thing you have of her, the last news. You get a few more hours with it. You have to draft a Facebook post. Your coworkers will slowly find out or won’t know at all, and four months down the line when you return to work and a cheery nurse asks how your wife is, you will watch her get whisked away by someone ready to fill her in before you can reply.

Maybe it would’ve been nice to answer, you will think. Maybe it was nice when your wife was alive again for a moment, and you were asked how she was doing. Maybe you wanted the chance.

You will not sleep the first night. At 11am, you will begin to inform the world that it has been rid of the meaning for its existence. 11am is a great time to tell everyone there is no reason for any of us to live anymore. You will wait until morning.

TALK ABOUT YOUR WIFE (DEAD).

At first you will say her name and then pause as if you’ve done something foolish. Every part of you has learned to live with and for her and adjusting the language feels near impossible; “is” becomes “was”, and your usage of phrases “used to” or “wanted to” skyrocket. Other people will avoid talking about her, too. Then, one day, you haven’t talked about your wife in weeks outside of therapy and even then it’s really about you.

You test out her name on your tongue. It dries the moment those familiar syllables fall off of it. A woman has just come in from the same place as your wife, so it only felt right. Putting the patient at ease will always be your number one priority. (You wished you could have been there to put her at ease when she died but maybe the suddenness was a mercy.) The woman laughs and asks what part of the area your wife is from. Is. You answer.

Is and was begun to blend and blur. What truths are stronger than a grave? Where she grew up did not change. Her favorite food was the same. Was. Is. Was. Was.

After a lousy stint helping cover the day shift, you’re drinking a beer next to your best friend and newfound emergency contact who has never loved the way you got to. Four sips in, and 7 months after is became was, you speak. You miss her, man. He turns to you. He misses her too.

You talk about the times she brought food into the department on her off day, and how her patients and their families always clogged up any public outing by coming up and greeting her. How she tried hooking him up with various cousins, friends, people she saw at a grocery store once and otherwise didn’t know. Your fifteenth anniversary bash, boozy and loud with densely packed bodies in the backyard and house like it was a high school prom night.

The time your friend’s grandmother died, when you and her showed up even though he told you not to and she forced him to eat your leftovers from dinner and rubbed his back. The next day, showing up unannounced to the hospice’s memory care unit to begin packing her things. You made two trips and both of you still left with your arms full. She didn’t let him carry anything except the photo that had been at her bedside and the ‘Sofya Robinavitch’ name tag off the front of the door. She stopped him just before they exited the hospice center.

“Don’t keep that with you,” She urged under her breath. Just once. He didn’t look at her or you or anything besides the floor. He reached over and discarded the sign in the last trash can before reaching the outside world.

Your friend wipes his eyes. She made an impossible thing simple, he said. He’s right.

STICK AROUND.

You don’t know why, but you have to.

Even though the dog has to be put down soon and you could drop it off at your friend’s door before you-/ Even though the shampoo and conditioner both ran out so it’s the perfect time to-/ Even though you’ve been hanging out on rooftops all it would take is one step and you’d finally-/ Even though there’s a new attending and they don’t need so you can finally be guilt free as you-/Even though you want to kill yourself, you stay.

You know why when you show up to work and your best friend has spent all day talking about killing himself. You think of the woman who won’t get to finish going gray. You think of the woman who forced him to throw away that sign. You think of the clothes you finally managed to box up and shove towards your coworkers and donation centers at the one year mark because it felt like the right thing to do, even with the bile in your throat. You think of the woman who rubbed his back and combed his mother’s hair and dropped in all by herself to talk to the woman who couldn’t remember who she was, then who you were, then who her grandson was. You realize why you had to stick around. You realize it was, as always, her doing.

You usher him into a room away from the others. You fiddle with the ring you’ve been trying out not wearing. You steel yourself to do what you’ve been preparing to do and look him in the eyes not to guilt him, not to dig for sympathy by bringing up your wife (dead), but with the eyes of someone who has loved and lost and God, you don’t want to lose again.

SEE YOUR WIFE EVERYWHERE.