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“Cameron?” Dulcie’s staring at me in the strangest way. She reaches out and strokes my face. She has the lightest touch I’ve ever felt as she wipes away my tears.
“Go away.”
“No,” she says.
“Please. Okay?”
“Cameron, look at me. …”
The room’s getting brighter. Dulcie’s wings unfurl, exposing her bare body by degrees. Shoulders. Stomach. Arms. Thighs. Her skin glistens.
“Dulcie?” I say, not taking my eyes off her. She is such a bright thing.
“Shhh …”
“If we do this, will I die?”
She puts her fingers to my lips, and this is the part of her that I see most.
“Everyone’s dying, Cameron. A little, every day. Make it count.”
Without another word, she pulls me to her. Those huge, soft wings fold around me like I’m being held for the first time. Like I’m drifting toward that black hole in the sky and I’m not afraid. I want to be pulled in. I want to hear it sing. I want to hear that B-flat in an octave no human being can really hear. I want to keep feeling. I want her.
o;Oh shit,” I say, teeth clenched.
The dust clears. I come back to my body. The digital clock flips over a few white numbers: 11:11. The whole thing has lasted three minutes. But I’m not going to die a virgin.
I roll onto my back, gasping for air, trying to come back to my body. Staci slides out of bed and stumbles around for her clothes.
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Hey, where ya going?”
“I hafta meet the girls in the bar,” she explains, pulling on her shorts.
“Do you have to go now?” I touch the bony xylophone of her spine and she moves away.
“I need to shower first.”
I pull the sheets up to my neck and watch her dress. “Maybe I’ll see you later,” she says. An afterthought. Like when you sign somebody’s yearbook See you this summer.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say.
She opens the door. Light bleeds in from the hall. Then she’s gone and the room is dark and empty.
It’s after midnight, but I can’t sleep. I’ve got night sweats. The sheets are drenched and a little pool of perspiration gathers in the hollow of my throat.
Dulcie’s leaning over me. Her face is a small, glowing nightlight in the dark. “Hey, cowboy. You don’t look so good.”
“Can’t breathe.”
“Yes you can. You’re just having a bad dream. Relax.”
I try to take a deep breath, but it’s like there’s a Goddamn elephant on my chest, and my muscles are doing their twitch-and-spaz disco routine. For a minute, I hear Glory saying, “Relax, baby. Just need your blood pressure.”
“I can’t sleep,” I say.
I hear sounds. Beep. Whirr. Muffled voices. I don’t see Gonzo. The bed next to me is empty. Glory’s holding my wrist, checking my pulse, a frown one more line on her face. When she’s through, she wipes my brow with a washcloth.
“Sweet boy. Get some rest.” She clicks the bolus, giving me a new bump of morphine.
