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James limped in, holding a glass of water. “Here,” he said softly. “Drink this, you must be tired.” His voice was soft like the breath of the night wind. He pulled up the covers, turned off the light, and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence was stifling. I closed my eyes, my heart pounding, and waited for something between fear and curiosity. A moment later, he spoke softly, his voice trembling: “You can sleep, Sarah. I won’t touch you. Not until you’re ready.” In the darkness, I noticed him lying on his side, his back turned, keeping a great distance – as if he was afraid of hurting me simply by touching me. My heart suddenly softened. I didn’t expect the man I considered “my last choice” to treat me with such respect. The next morning I woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains. On the table was a breakfast tray: an egg sandwich, a glass of hot milk, and a handwritten note: “I went to the store to fix a customer’s TV. Don’t go out if it’s still raining. I’ll be back for lunch.” – James. I read the note over and over, my eyes stinging. see next page
