"Dance" [mf]

"...The little white lights dance about me
The little white lights start to close in
Everything that I see fades around me
As the voices surrounding become a din..."

	I hunched over my diary as the pen scratched along the paper.
I scribbled out my pains and doubts and fears, and was enveloped in my
own world as I wrote my poem.  Finally, I hit a mental wall and sat
back against the pillows, sighing as I laid my pen down.

	"Martha?"  Scott's tired voice drifted to me from the door. 

	I turned my head and smiled at him, grateful for the company.
His face was pale and gaunt, but still as beautiful as the day he'd
checked in here.  His hair was still fair and fine, and his eyes still
an ashen, haunting shade of grey.  He slowly pushed his wheelchair
over to my bed.  His last pride in life was being able to push his
wheelchair by himself, unassisted by the nurses and volunteers that
scuttled about us.  I always felt proud of him for being able to do
it, although it wore him out no end.

	"Hey," My voice was soft and gentle.  "Not feeling so good
this morning?"

	He shook his head, positioning his wheelchair against my bed,
his knees knocking the side rails.  "Do I ever?"  This time I shook my
own head, reaching my hand out to clasp his.  

	He laughed, a weary smile stretching across his lips.  

	"You don't look so good yourself."

	I frowned, and patted my chest.  "My lungs are bothering me.
They tell me that the drugs aren't doing anything for the pneumonia."

	He nodded.  "I can tell.  I can hear your breathing.  Haven't
you had a treatment today at the least?"

	My lungs rattled and groaned with complaint as I sighed.
"Someone came in and smacked me around a few hours ago.  What about
you?  Are you taking the morphine?"

	He grimaced.  "You know I won't take any morphine, Martha."
	
	I stared off into space, lost in my thoughts as I contemplated
my paper.  He recognized the starry look in my eyes and asked me what
I was writing.  I handed him the worn diary, and he held it gingerly
between his fingers as he read it, being very careful not to wrinkle
its thin pages.  Finally, he finished, looking up at my.  His eyes
were intently flashing with renewed effervescence. 

	"That's good."

	I flushed with embarrassment, my face hot and red as I took
the volume from his hands.  I gazed down at it, looking over the
floral pattern of the cover that had been done in light, sketchy
watercolors.  "It's my only pleasure in life, I suppose," I murmured
as I put it back on the bedside table.  

	Scott laughed wryly, his smile crooked with sadness.
"Life," he pondered, tasting and savoring the word as it rolled off
his tongue.  "Can you call it that?  I won't live into next week,
dear, and you're not looking well yourself.  You have me worried.  I
have myself worried.  Here we are, alone together at the mercy of this
hospice."  His voice didn't crack or crumble with emotion as the words
hung between us.  It was a simple fact.  We'd shed enough tears and
finished crying over it a long time ago.

	I coughed without warning and hurried to cover my mouth.
Flecks of blood appeared on my hands and I reached for a Kleenex to
hold over my mouth as I coughed and choked helplessly as the
convulsions racked my body.  He leaned over, moving his fragile body
as quickly as he was able, and gave me his strongest whack on the
back, which was still feeble with his sapping strength.  My body was
crooked over, my arms wrapped around my midsection in a weak attempt
to hold my convulsing body together.  Finally, the violent coughing
fit stopped, and I looked up at him, tears of pain pooling in my eyes
as I took in a sharp breath.  His concerned expression softened, and
he lifted his hand to my cheek, wiping away a spot of blood.  Dear,
sweet Scott.  No wonder I was in love with him.

	"Hey.  It's okay," he whispered.  I gasped, my pants shallow
as I tried to catch my thin breath.  The tears came, flowing down my
cheeks and running down my chin.  I turned my face away from him so he
wouldn't see me crying, and he opened his arms to me, leaning over to
pull me down from the bed into his lap.  I sat there for a few
minutes, curled in a trembling, shaking ball, gasping and crying, and
he rocked me like a little child, murmuring soothing words and
stroking my hair.

	"Scott, look at me.  I'm worse than ever.  I'm only seventeen,
but I've spent my life in and out of hospitals since I was nine.  I've
had very few friends.  I haven't even had a boyfriend.  I haven't
lived."

	His low, soft voice soothed me, and he caressed my ear, his
fingertip grazing my lobe with the softest touch as he stroked my
hair.  "You're beautiful to me.  You know we've been friends for so
long that it doesn't matter if you haven't done much."

	"Yes it does," I choked between gasps.  "Only nuns die
virgins."

	His laugh tinkled in my ear, and his eyes sparkled with mirth.
I couldn't help it, and started to laugh through my tears.  Our
chuckles reverberated through the room, lighting the darkness, if only
for a little bit.  Finally, the light fell away to a dim, comfortable
glow.
	
	"Do you remember when we met, Martha?"

	"Of course I do.  How can you even ask?"

	He beamed, looking me deep into my eyes.  "You were in the
room next to me at Saint Teresa General."

	"You made fun of my Tweety Bird slippers."

	"Only to cover up the fact that I thought you were the most
gorgeous girl I'd laid eyes on all year."  He winked at me.  I smiled
and squeezed his hand.

	"You weren't too bad looking yourself, Scott."

	"Nope, I wasn't."  He was grinning unashamedly.  His smile
faded slowly as he became absorbed in thought.

	"You know," he said softly, gazing out the window, "I've never
even been to Disney World.  I haven't had it quite as bad as you, I
mean, up until a year ago I felt really good, but..."

	"Don't compare, Scott," I said in hushed tones.  "We're in the
same situation now.  I've just been sick for longer.  That's all.  It
took longer to kill me."

	He sighed and his Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped.  "I'm not
much older than you.  I basically ruined my life.  I couldn't control
my hormones."

	"Shhh, don't think about it."

	He paused for a moment.  "I still don't know weather I'm gay.
Bisexual.  Whatever happens, happens, I suppose, and I don't really
want to make myself think about it, or to make myself choose."

	"It doesn't matter.  You shouldn't have to choose."

	"You're right. Whatever I am, I was foolish then.  Now..." he
hesitated.  "Now it's deeper.  I know love.  I know spirituality."

	The corners of Scott's pale, sad eyes wrinkled in
contemplation as he continued.  "I suppose we each have our own
destinies.  I'm just sorry that this turned out to be mine.  I'm sorry
that this turned out to be yours."

	"It isn't your fault," I whispered, caressing his cheek with
trembling fingers.  He tilted his head into my hand, and he blinked
his eyes, keeping the tears that pooled near his eyelids at bay.  I
felt so badly for him at that moment, and felt so protective and
loving of him, that I took in a short, shuddering breath, and brought
his hand to my lips, kissing the fingers, savoring the human contact.
He looked over past me, to the thick journal that sat on my bedside
table.

	"We all have our own small comforts.  Like you and your
writing.  Why do you like to write so much?"

	I thought for a moment.  "Because it's an outlet.  It's a
rush.  I can feel the words flowing from my brain to my fingers in a
current as I write them.  I love to see a story that I wrote take
shape slowly, adding dimensions and making the plot thicken.  I love
trying to set a mood with the rhythm of my words.  I like to paint
with letters."

	I paused.  

	"And it makes me feel better.  I have someone to tell."

	He glanced over at the journal, and squeezed my hand.  "You
should publish some of it."

	I laughed bitterly.  "It's too late."

	"Never too late, dearie.  Someone could publish it for you.
You're good.  Some of your writing is better, some worse, but all of
it shines through in my mind.  In some way.  In any way."

	"What about you?  Don't you have any release?"

	"No.  I sit back and think for a long time, and I suppose
that's a release of sorts.  I'm not artistic.  I don't sing, I don't
write or paint, but I dream."

	"I dream too.  That's all I'm doing when I'm writing, really."

	"Does it feel like you're dreaming right now?"

	"Sort of.  I wish this could last forever."

	"Nothing lasts forever."  He sighed, and squeezed my hand with
effort, his fingers weak and growing cold.  I could tell that his
strength was draining, as was mine.

	I swallowed, the metallic taste of blood lingering still in my
mouth.  Scott's hand continued to stroke my hair, his tough comforting
me even as his hands trembled with the effort to move up and down.  I
snuggled closer to his body and rested my head on his chest.  He wiped
away the last of my tears.  I shifted, and realized that I was sitting
on his leg, which was probably uncomfortable for him.

	"Am I hurting you, Scott?"

	"No, babe, I'm fine.  Just rest your pretty little head and
don't worry about me."

	My lungs rattled as I sighed.  We sat in silence for a few
moments.  A thought crept out of my subconscious, as slow and
unnoticeable as the tiniest of snails, and I furrowed my brow,
pondering the question I'd always made a mental reminder to ask Scott.

	"Scott.  Hey."  I squeezed his hand gently, murmuring into his
ear.  He lifted his eyelids.

	"I wasn't asleep."  His breathing was shallow.

	"Do you want me to ask you later?"

	"No, it's okay.  What is it?"

	I cleared my throat, and pressed my forehead against his neck.
"Is it a lot more comforting, knowing who to blame?"

	He shook his head with dissent.  "I have nobody to blame."

	"What about the person who gave AIDS to you?"

	He sighed.  He looked thin and tired and white, with dark,
creeping shadows etched across his sharp facial bones.  "I don't blame
him.  We were young, and it's as much my fault as his.  It's not fair
to blame him for something we did together.  I wanted to."

	I stroked my hand along his chest, letting my fingernails run
over his bumpy, bony ridge of his ribs.  "Did you love him?"

	He nodded.  "I still do."

	"Do you love me?"

	"You know I do, Martha."

	"The way that you loved him, I mean?"

	A pause, a sound of thundering silence.  "No.  Not in that
way.  I love you in the deeper, spiritual sense.  I respect you more.
I want to marry you, have babies with you..." His eyes were glassy
with tears, and I buried my face deep into his neck, trying to not
cry.  He held me tighter to him, and I could hear him swallow a sob.  

	Softly, I mused,  "I've loved you since I met you.  Why can't
we be normal, and go out to movies and dinners, and go have ice cream
cones afterwards..." My voice trembled and shook.  His neck became wet
with my tears.  I sniffled, the rest of my sentence caught in my
throat.  Finally, I forced it out.

	"I don't have anybody to blame.  I don't have a face or a
name.  All I know is that somebody gave me blood that they shouldn't
have, and I got this... this disease..."

	"You're innocent, Martha.  You don't need anybody to blame.
You're a victim," he said softly, holding me closer to him.

	"I could blame the kid who was pushing my swing.  I don't even
blame you for sharing my fate.  You know how I got AIDS, don't you?"

	"Yes.  You broke your leg."

	"Yes, I was on a swing, and I fell," my voice cracked, "and
when they were trying to put my leg back together, I ran dangerously
low on blood."  I laughed sardonically.  "Dangerously.  Very
dangerously, I guess.  Dangerous enough to kill me.  Damned if you do,
damned..."

	"If you don't.  Yes."  He gazed at me, listening to the story
I'd told thousands of times, and still focusing all his attention to
me as if he'd never heard it before.

	"I've thought for hours about whoever gave it to me.  Wondered
how they got it.  Drugs.  Sex.  Straight sex, gay sex, whatever kind
of sex.  Blood transfusion.  Wondered how they died, or if they're
still alive, wandering around in a hospice all skin and bones, just
like me.  I wonder why this virus chose to attack me.  I haven't done
anything.  I haven't had sex.  I haven't used drugs.  I wonder if they
remember me when they found out, and wonder just who they passed it on
to.  Or if they knew they had it at that time, and just didn't..." the
tone of my voice squeaked, "just didn't care?" 

	"Don't cry, babe."  He kissed me on top of my forehead, still
stroking my hair.  "In some ways, we're probably luckier than normal
people."

	"How, Scott?  We're on our deathbeds."

	"We know that we love each other."

	"Normal people know."

	"No, they don't.  Either they don't know and pretend they do,
or they do know and don't do anything about it."  Or they don't know
that they know, I added silently.

	A tear traced its wet path down my cheek.  I voiced, almost to
myself, "And we can't do anything about it."  He relaxed back against
his chair, shifting once more in his seat.  

	"Are you okay?"  My eyebrows furrowed in concern.

	"I'm not feeling so good."  His eyes were red and droopy with
fatigue.  I started to get up off of him, and he tugged at the fabric
of my nightgown, pulling me back down.  "Don't.  I like it."

	I settled back down, and he put his cold hand on my knee, his
other hand's fingers playing with my own.  They danced together, in a
slow waltz of finality, climbing and playing with each other.  My
fingertips traced the veins that stood out on the back of his thin
hands, worn out by years of IV needles.  His hand was smooth and
callous-free.  I could remember a time, long ago, when he'd had tough,
huge calluses from working that scraped and scuffed my small palm.
Now the fingers that brushed my palm were delicate and tender.  I wove
my fingers between his, holding his hand tight to mine before
releasing it, and his fingers started to cavort with mine once again,
the edge of his fingernail playing with the smooth, soft skin between
my thumb and forefinger.   He leaned down to kiss me gently on the
border of my mouth, barely brushing my lips before pressing deeper
into the kiss.  His lips were smooth and full, and a little cracked at
the edges with the toll his illness took on him.  I sighed.  

	"I'm sorry."

	 "For what?" He asked, his eyes mesmerized as they watched the
slow dance of our fingers.

	"For not meeting you sooner, so we could have been together
while we were healthier.  For... for not telling you I loved you
sooner, so we could have done something."

	"We're both sick and tired, Martha.  It's not your fault."

	"I wish it'd worked out different.  I wish I could give you my
virginity.  I'm sorry that I can't."

	"Martha dear, it's not your fault.  And if you want to, you
don't have to be a virgin anymore.  Making love isn't physical."

	I closed my eyes and listened to my lungs creaking and
groaning with every breath.  I didn't need another treatment.  It was
too late for that now.  He held me tighter as he sensed my sadness and
despair.  

	I whispered,  "There was no point in waiting, was there?"  

	He shook his head in disagreement, his eyebrows furrowing into
a frown.  "Your waiting gave me respect for you.  It made me love you.
Sure, I was frustrated sexually, but for you..."

	"You know that I would now, don't you?"

	He smiled sadly.  "Yes.  I would make love to you like there
was no tomorrow, and perhaps there isn't, but even if I could
physically right now" - he gestured to himself - "I wouldn't, because
I don't want to hurt you."

	I thought about this.  "It would probably hurt."

	"See, that's why.  But like I said, I don't believe sex is
physical.  Sex is just a physical bond acting out the emotional one
that should always exist.  If there's no bond, sex is nothing.  I had
a hard time understanding that, but now I do, and I think you do,
too."

	"I do, Scott.  I do."

	"And you know, babe, we can just hold each other and love each
other and that'll be all that matters, because in my mind, we'll have
made love.  You're already closer to me than anybody else.  You know
me better than I know myself.  I know you, too, and I love you."

	I tried not to cry, blinking back pools of tears.  "I love
you."

	He gazed at me, his big, brown eyes kind and loving.  I kissed
him, our lips dry and comfortable as they pressed against each other.
He held me, and I relaxed for the first time in a long while, curled
up close to him.  He stroked and rocked me for a long time, crooning
beautiful words into my ear, comforting and soothing me.  The sun
started to set, and we watched the death of the sun together, the wild
painting of the sky, the conflicting fireball oranges and the pink
brush strokes of the clouds all fading into a serene, deep blue with
shining, bright stars that cast above us.  The room grew dark and cold
with the night.  His arms grew weak but he still continued to rock me.
I felt so tired that my eyelids fluttered shut, and I fell into a
deep, satiated sleep with the rhythmic rocking of his legs.  

***

	I opened my eyes to a dark room.  My breathing was worse, and
I was unable to take in a quarter lungful of air without coughing and
spitting it back out.  His arms were still wrapped protectively around
me, his lips pressed against my head in a permanent kiss.  His hand
had slipped from my hair, and he no longer stroked it.  His palm lay
on my shoulder.  I just sat there in his lap, curled into a ball
against his chest, for a long while, reflecting over our short lives.
I looked at his face, the fire and vitality in his eyes gone.  I found
myself wishing that his warm breath still washed gently over me, that
his voice were still crooning and soothing me.  

	My fingers were still intertwined with his cold, clammy
digits, our dance stilled when the song ended.  Finally, I lifted my
head from his motionless chest to look at the clock.  It had been
hours since I'd fallen asleep in his arms.  I choked and my heart fell
with the passion of my grief, and I buried my face into his neck once
again, trying to make the brief time that we'd had together last just
a little longer.  A nurse opened the door and came into the room,
turning the light on.  She looked at my tear-streaked cheeks, my calm,
lifeless eyes, and she knew.  Slowly and carefully, she pulled Scott's
arms away from their position around my numb body and lifted me from
Scott's wheelchair, putting me between the sheets of my bed, tucking
the cold blankets in around me.  She pressed a hand against my
forehead, not to see if I was fevered, but in soft, measured comfort.
I bit my lip with sorrow when she brushed back a strand of hair much
like the way that Scott had done.  She leaned above me, closing the
drapes, shutting out the morning light. I watched her as she wheeled
Scott out of my room, and he disappeared from my vision for the last
time.  I thought about how he hadn't lived. 

	I lay there, motionless, still and quiet, staring at the black
ceiling.  I saw imaginary shapes prance and swing about the darkness,
laughing and shrieking with delight, their exuberating play never
tiring as they frolicked about the night.  Scott's face loomed above
me, and I swallowed a cough when I saw him, unable to stir in
excitement, but I was fine with the way I felt.  I felt comforted and
at peace.  I closed my eyes to feel wet eyelashes tickle a moist
cheek, and drifted off into a beautiful white and gold and shining
silver dream, dancing in my joy for the last time.