Page 37 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I wouldn’t ask that of anyone,” I said. “To give up the freedom that they enjoy so much. But I specifically wouldn’t request it of you, Peter. It’s okay. I will be okay. I promise.”

Peter sighed. “I wouldn’t ask you to change what you want either.”

I kissed the top of his head.

“Where does that leave us?” He nuzzled my chest with his face.

His arms seemed to tighten around me, as though afraid I was already slipping away.

I supposed that I was.

“We have some days left,” I said, kissing the top of his head again. “Let’s have more days like this. Food. Talking. Sex. Let’s just enjoy each other for the rest of the trip.”

He sighed. “Then what?”

“I will go back to Montreal,” I said. “That is what was going to happen anyway, yes?”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” I said softly. “I feel that we shouldn’t make the obvious outcome harder on ourselves by pretending it is not the obvious outcome. Yes?”

“Enzo,” he said. “I want you to know that—”

I stopped him, raising his chin so that I could kiss him softly on the lips.

“I’ve had a wonderful time,” I whispered against his lips when we broke the kiss. “And these next days will be wonderful, too.”

Peter stared into my eyes for several moments, some internal conflict like electricity in his eyes. However, the power that fueled those jolts died, and Peter sighed.

“I’ve had a wonderful time, too,” he said.

Our arms tightened around each other, and we said nothing more as we drifted off, watching the stars wink down at us. Knowing winks. Remorseful winks.

It was as if the universe itself was surprised by the turn of events.

I’m not certain of many things. However, if you are able to shock the universe, you have done something very wrong. Or very right.

I hoped my decision and what I’d said to Peter was the latter.

Even if it would hurt for a long time.

Who Wants to Play With a Defective Toy?

Pain. Not at first. Never at first. And never during. Pain comes after. When I would come back to myself. It always felt as though someone had wound up a rubber band, stretched it as far as it could go, then let it snap back on itself. The snap resonated through my body. Made me ache in places I didn’t have names for or even know existed. Other than the discomfort, the pain is humiliating. The entire process that brings on the pain is humiliating.

Blindness, followed by the blurry vision that brings me back to the world. The slow realization that I’ve urinated on myself. My aching jaw that I can’t seem to unclench for seconds. Minutes? Hours? I’m never sure. Time means nothing and everything. It means nothing because I don’t know how much has passed. It means everything because I wonder how much I’ve lost.

Anger. That follows the pain and humiliation, though none of them fade completely. They simply get pushed to the background as anger rushes to the surface, screaming and red hot. I can’t do anything about the anger because I can’t do anything. The anger is at myself. Not others. I’m angry because what has happened is my fault. I got careless. Irresponsible. I was flippant.

Finally, there is fear. It might be the worst because fear is a transient emotion that one has absolutely no control over. It is the most irrational. It is the least human—because it comes from nowhere and everywhere. Everything around me strikes fear into me in those moments after a seizure.

Did I jerk and twitch and bash myself against something? Do I have a gash somewhere? Did I hit my head? Did I even fall? Was I standing, sitting, or lying when it started? Where am I? Am I in a safe place? When will I be able to move and check? How long will I be vulnerable? What day is it? Is it day? Do I know my name? Why am I wet?

Oh. Yeah.

My first blurry vision being the red halo of Peter’s hair had the fear and humiliation doing a dance in my head. Anger tap-danced around the two.

I’m calling an ambulance.