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The line is silent; I closes my eyes and enjoys my touch and the memory of the hours before. “Who were you out with?” There’s an edge to the question, a mix of fear and salacious curiosity.“Friends, I said” “You’re not telling me something. You’re supposed to tell me everything.”“Am I?”“Yes”“Are you sure?” I lift my hips for better access to myself.“Yes” He’s stroking his cock, I can tell by the clipped accent of his words. I take a deep breath and let it out with my admission.“But I’ve been bad, Sweetie. I’ve been so bad.” Another pause, I picture him in his apartment. Muscled, naked and hard, his cock in his heavy hand, the phone held up by a shoulder. He’s sitting in his big, leather chair. It’s from where he always calls her. On late summer afternoons, he used to sit in it while I blew him before going out. He was my sex king, ruling over all that I did. “How were you bad?” He’s a little desperate.“I can’t tell you”“Oh, c’mon” he forces a laugh “I like it when you’re bad.” My. He had stood, looking at her, willing her eyelids to move, so he could see her hazel eyes staring into his. She was a patchwork of bandages. He was able to see her hands, which looked almost normal. He had an errant feeling of relief. At least she could still grip a racquet. Otherwise, she just looked like she was resting. The sheet rose and fell slowly, over her breasts.Then, fatigue claimed him, and he sat down, to lean his head back against the wall. He dozed, unaware of the times that nurses came in to check on the patient, and record vital signs, and wait.A nurse finally woke him, around eleven."You may as well go home," she said. "Sleep in a bed, not here."He wanted to stay. He'd already been told to take the next day off. They'd convert his overtime into comp time, if he did, but he didn't care about that. He was worried about his ... What was she? She wasn't his girlfriend. That wasn't the kind of relationship they had. But somehow he couldn't just think of her as his friend,.
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