He can see the tears.
He doesn’t ask questions.
He simply wraps me in a blanket, closing the door for privacy.
Patting the bed with his hand, he invites me to sit.
“I can't,” I whimper. “I'm gonna be sick.”
He empties a small rubbish bin from under his desk.
“Just in case,” he says.
The sky has dimmed so much that I can barely distinguish the items on his shelf.
He crosses to the other side of the room, looking out at the street.
Then his silhouette walks toward me.
“Come here,” he soothes. “I've got you.”
Ducking beneath the blanket, he cradles me in his arms.
“I know you're scared. It's okay.”
I’m shaking, both from fear and from the cold.
“We need to get you out of these wet clothes,” he says softly.
“But I’m…”
“I promise I'll close my eyes.”
Peeling the soggy fabric from my body, I step onto the carpet.
Removing my underwear, I stand behind him.
His back is still turned.
A shirt and pair of shorts are offered to me.
Then the blanket cocoons me once again.
Together we huddle at the foot of the bed, trying to stay away from the window.
Every time a boom of thunder shakes the building, Porter shields me.
He’s humming a familiar tune.
It takes me a moment to recognise it.
Sam somebody.
Stay With Me.
This song was playing in the kitchen downstairs last night.
He must have noticed when I mouthed the chorus into a soapy half-washed whisk.
