VIII. Strength. [Reversed]

A Flophouse—NIGHT

I shiver with the ague under the thin blanket as Mary climbs into the canopy bed with me and I feel the warmth and smoothness of her flannel pajamas against me. Despite the terrible fever, here we are in all too cozy in this shabby room I’ve temporary let, while I figure things out.

We were working project together, shooting some documentary video of some denizens of a small mountain village to be exact, when I was stricken again. And she came to my aid again. I’ve become weak. I cannot remember much more.

Now, we lie on a cot in the mostly empty room. We talk about the shoot in the dark.

“I doubt your husband would approve of the one-bed situation, Mary,” I say at last, “But I am too sick for the cold floor and you should also not give up the bed.”

“I’m not married,” she offers.

“Okay.” I accept, “But, the kid?”

“Willie. With his grandparents.”

“Okay, good.”

“Did you think I had to be married to have a kid?”

“No, but. You know.”

“I know.”

At a lull in the conversation I am shocked as she casually puts an arm across my chest and nestles against me, “I hope we’re together forever. As production partners, I mean.”

It is a rather bold move. She is not embarrassed.

Certainly, Mary could be a woman to die for, so sweet and not terrible looking for her age and seemingly smart. And I certainly thought we got along well together. At the moment I was too miserably ill to consider the idea further. So, though the attention is divine, so with a million regrets I ask about her baby, Willie.

“Yea, I better check on him again before we sleep.” And she is back out of the bed and the lights are on. I offer some loose change on and she heads to the payphone in the hallway.

I decide to struggle out of bed also to urinate and, once up, immediately decide I am too weak to make it there. The sink that serves the kitchenette in the corner looks inviting. If I could manage before her return. But it is full of soapy water.

Besides, I think of the embarrassment if I dribbled on my boxers. Boxers!

In my illness, she had been put me to bed in my underwear. Quickly I spot my khaki pants and pull them on as I hear her footsteps in the hall..

“What are you doing?” she smiles slyly upon entering, “You can’t sleep in those uncomfortable things.”

“Well, I can’t share a bed with you in my underwear.”

“Why not?”

“Ah, you know,” I picture her embracing me again and a stray erection poking its head out of the opening, “It might pop out.”

She smiles again and leads me to the cot, “I’ve seen one or two of those before.” She tucks me in and then follows herself, snuggling against me in reassurance, ”In, fact, I saw Willie’s just this morning.”

“Mine’s a little, bigger then Willie’s.”

She giggles and shifts her position under the blankets, deliberately, I suspect, brushing against it.