STACY ADAMS lives in St. Louis. She is currently working on her first book.

                                                                   draft


He lies on his bed, quietly smoking a cigarette, waiting for her to come. It has been one hour since his future has been altered and he knows it is only a matter of time before she is there with him.

She enters nervously, pausing in the doorway to create a memory of the figure on the bed. She then slides next to him, fingering the cotton sheets. He has not yet acknowledged her presence. His eyes are concerned with tracing the contours of the botched paint job on the ceiling. She follows his gaze upward and for a long while they stay like that, suspended in time. It is she that speaks first.

"Don't go."

He almost winces at the two simple words, but his voice is steady. "I have to."

She shakes her head angrily, but doesn't allow her sight to leave the safety of the ceiling. "No you don't. I have money. I've been saving, but I don't really need it. It's enough to get to Canada, even Mexico if you wanted."

"I can't go to Canada." His voice is even and sure, as though he is aware of something others only dream to know.

She is breaking. "Why not?"

"If I don't go, someone else will go in my place. It has to be me." He has practiced saying this in his head and as he says it out loud, he almost believes himself.

She is desperate. "You'll die."  

"Maybe...Probably."

She sits up on the bed to look at his face, look in his eyes, which still aren't allowing her in his vision. "What if I told you I was in love with you?"

He puts down his cigarette and finally acknowledges her physical presence with his gaze. "You're not in love with me." The comment isn't cold or sad, but a simple fact.

She knows he is going.  In one last attempt she allows a tear to drop onto his blue jeans. He doesn't notice, or at least pretends not to. She accepts her failure. "So where do we go from here?"

"You go to Berkley. You make friends. You write poetry. You listen to Dylan. You meet someone. You forget about me and this day. And I...I, just go."

"Please," she whispers under her breath. She doesn't know if it's the beginning of a prayer or something else, but she lets the single word hang in the air, a barrier between them.

He sighs and touches her arm. "Just lie with me for a little while, okay?"

She slowly nods her head and they both return to their original positions on the bed, staring at the ceiling and beyond. He takes her hand and listens to the clock above his bed tick away the minutes that he still owns.

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© 2003 Stacy Adams