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The Last Remaining Wonder in the World
part 3
by Feech
My side of the bed is furthest from the
window, where moonlight makes the grey and brown
room appear white and opal. I can't sleep, but I
can't tell whether that's because I'm nervous
about Gordy and his show that goes on again
tomorrow, as I'm always more concerned about these
things than he is, or whether I'm energetic from
being with him and wish he hadn't gone to sleep so
soon, or whether there's some bad mood that I'm
not really defining and I don't want to stay in
bed.
I hold my head up and turn it back to look
over my shoulder, and see him on his side facing
the window, breathing softly. I yawn, but don't
feel myself fall asleep until I awake, and think I
must have been dreaming. Something changed, but
I'm not sure what it is.
The room is white, but night-white, like the
moon makes it because of its angle on the hill and
the blankets that look pale in the dark. Gordy's
half of the covers have fallen down upon the
sheets. He isn't in them, then.
Barely have I registered this when something
stirs. It smells strong, rancid and black. Then
it blasts out white, blue and searing sunlike, and
I know what it is. I look under the blanket,
jerking it back to my side, but nothing is there.
Just the hole it's making as it flies up from
above the mattress and spikes towards the ceiling.
The blanket edges where it's eaten away are
creeping towards my hands. I fall back, and I
know I'm not moving entirely on my own. I want to
be reaching forward, grasping the other edge of
the bed and looking down to see if he has fallen
out the other side. But he's not here, and I
can't look for him as the air blasts me back and I
begin to stiffen violently in the arms, legs and
jaws-- I know what it is, I've felt it before, and
somehow it had to happen now; I can't say a word.
I don't feel any burning. But it rips out the
inside of my nostrils even as they're changing and
I'm gasping to draw breath through my mouth.
It begins eating my side of the bed. It's
tossed me out onto the floor, and I hit without
any support, because my arms and legs are straight
and tight out to my sides. They kick, violently,
and I hear the fire screaming up the sides of the
walls and curtains, chattering along the fringes
of the bedcovers. I need to get out, I know, but
I cannot move except in intermittent jerks of each
body part, until I black out and don't recall the
rest of the seizure.
On the floor, upright, bunched together with
my elbows touching my toes, still the air is
circling in my nose and lungs and sewing my
eyelids together with needles upon needles and
tearing them open again with light. Then it is
black. There is no sound but a crackling roar,
and no light-- no light whatsoever. Then I kick
out, fold my ears back aching tight and run.
I skid about in a full circle and claw at the
slippery floor, that has pieces of a billowing
dark ceiling crumbling down upon it and my fur
that stands out straight from my skin. The
ceiling moves lower as it fills up the room,
gouging out the walls and the normal ceiling and
making itself out of them, and I choke on the
breath that won't come in when I need it but
forces itself up my nostrils and into my eyes when
I try to close it off.
I dash under the cracking bed, to Gordy's
side, but he is not on the floor. For a moment I
think I know what must have happened, but then a
piece of that hot-black blanketing air slices down
into my fur and singes the skin, and I shiver
violently and tear for the door.
In the hall I panic, digging my claws into
flooring that won't accept them and coughing on
the air I draw in in greater breaths the more
tight and surrounded I get. The blackness is
louder than the smoke alarm. I'm staring at the
walls, seeming to press out from the fire within
the bedroom, the opposite hall paper trickling
down in ash from flames escaping by the door I
just shot through myself. My eyes are on the
sides of my head. It comes to me then that I have
to not see anything but what is in front of me, or
I will stay here and suffocate.
I focus on the drop-off that is the top of
the stairs and launch myself towards it. I make
the first step all right, then my long back legs
toss me over my own head and my forehead collides
with the banister. I slide down on the edges of
steps, my ribs pressing my skin between them and
the stair edges, and then I kick out with my right
back foot and throw myself off the steps for
another hard landing on the first floor. I can
feel the fire following me. It's arcing up around
the whole of the staircase like a ring in the
circus for a tiger, only it's still coming on.
Something from above falls in front of my nose,
burning, a chunk of pock-marked ceiling tile, and
I jump to one side, squeal harshly around the
smoke in my throat, and run for the kitchen.
There's a sluice, screened in, in the back
corner of the kitchen behind the oven. I kick my
way in through the gap between oven and counter,
thinning myself out and reaching with my hot
forelimbs, crash up against the screening and
begin clawing and ripping at it with my teeth.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm relieved that
I knew that it was here, but part of me is
suffocating and purely certain of no escape. I
know I can never get the double kitchen screen
door open in time to get away.
Something gives, and I feel for a second it
must be the fire destroying the attachments to the
woodwork and it will char me before I work the bit
of screen away. The stone the sluice is made of
still feels cool to my paws, and I rip at the
wood, knowing it isn't fire, sure it is fire,
until I gasp and yank back and the screen bends up
invitingly.
I cut out chunks of my skin and fur on the
points of the detached screen, but I scrabble out
and jerk back on my haunches in repeated drawing
of clean-air breaths. I turn back to the house.
It is still roaring and parts of the boards are
shrieking and warning of intent to give way.
Fresh air is further from the house. I
scuttle away, sideways, more slowly than I should,
knowing the house is where everything is. I
finally see a window burst out in the second
level, and turn with tail in the air and flee to
the top of the hill.
There, I cannot watch anymore. I shiver and
my head and torso bob with each inhalation, and my
eyes tear around the ash and needles in them.
The house burns well into the night. I turn
back again, on the hill. My skin is scored by
wire along the ribs, and I can't breathe any
better than I could in my rabbit body. The night
sky is completely obscured by charcoal-billowing
waves. I can hear shouting.
It's cold, which it shouldn't be, I think. I
can't really register what happened. Everything
is memorable, but nothing makes sense.
"Sir! There's one up here."
"Two! There are two! There should be two!
I'm their neighbor. We were coming home down the
road an--"
Plastic-clad men with smokey faces tramp
hurriedly up the hill and bend down to me with
shining eyes from the same smoke that burned mine.
"He's in shock."
"Breathe, son, calm down, you'll be fine."
I try to make my breaths slower and deeper
and find that my lungs are not as crowded and dry
as I thought. I blink repeatedly, staring down at
the house, which is still licked at by edges of
flame that the rest of the men are fighting. I
didn't even hear the sirens get here.
I sit straight up. Someone puts a blanket
around my shoulders and a stocking cap on my head.
An ambulance rolls cautiously up the grass-covered
slope to bring the medical people closer to me. I
just watch the hoses and the chemicals. They take
out more and more of the fire. And I just sit
here. I can't make myself say anything. There is
nothing to do but let them take him away. I see
that the house is gone. There is a pile of wet
ash like fresh grave-covering over a home-sized
plot. I rub a hand across my cheek and allow the
emergency techs to put me on a stretcher and I try
to answer all their questions.
"There's one missing, this is Francis,
there's one more," I hear our neighbor saying. I
try to look at him, but he's behind one of the
coated and thin-gloved emergency people.
"He must have been in the house," someone
else says in a torn voice.
I shake my head, but there is no more answer
to give and I can't see who is saying this.
"We couldn't get into the house beyond two
rooms on the first floor," a fighter says
defeatedly, trying to sound sympathetic. Still
the team that has me is asking me questions and
I'm swallowing my bitter-tasting saliva and
answering them as best I can. I am lifted into
the ambulance.
On the black pile of house, smoke spins up
from dying places of fire. The hoses are
continuing to drench the area. One line of flame
fringes up, but the water is aimed along its
fleeing length and it sputters down. The doors
are closed behind me and I lay my head down.
"You'll be just fine, son," murmurs a doctor,
the same way the fireman spoke to me.
"Is the fire out?"
He places a hand on my forehead,
comfortingly. "Yes."
The moon comes out the next night and I see that it has changed. It is no longer a body in the sky. It is a hole. Gordy's going changed it; I can't think of anything else that would have done it. I feel sorry for the people that never even knew what made it sink away. And now there will never be a moon again, and the hole can be seen all over the world.
Gordy's sister, Mary, calls to tell me on the
day they finally decide that the evidence warrants
considering Gordon's passing to be due to
complications from the Martian Flu. Not that it
matters. It had been put down as 'fire.' Either
way. Mary calls me on the videophone that my
parents ordered for me as soon as they heard.
They want to be able to see me when they talk to
me, even from Canada, especially from Canada, to
know that I am really all right. At least, as
right as can be expected.
For days I wore grey sweatshirts and white
tennis shoes. I folded my arms and stood on
sidewalks by myself a lot. Mary sees me, not
dressed the way I used to be, but what is she
supposed to say. My clothes were lost. So was
everything else. My parents couldn't stay forever
and I didn't feel up to going shopping with them.
They decided to give me time. My eyes are empty
when I happen to look in a mirror.
"Francis, it's me."
"Mary," I say, surveying her face.
"I--" she has to make her voice stop
wobbling, and she starts again. "Dear, come out
and see me next week? Can you come on the bus?
I-- I found a picture."
I draw in a sharp breath. "It's true," she
assures me quickly, seeing that I would hate to
spark my eyes for anything that isn't real. "It's
an old one, from before he met you. Not his best.
But a real one."
I nod. "When... do you want me to come out?"
"Anytime next week. I'll mail it to you by
computer, too, but I wanted to tell you. I also--
he lent me one of his Carpenters greatest hits
CDs. You could take the bus out and have my room
for the night and ride back next day. I want to
see you. I'm so sorry I haven't talked more."
"That's okay." I don't know what else to say.
"Please come see me. I can pay for the bus
ticket."
"No! No. I'll make it out. I promise.
I..." I just don't know what to say. My fingers
are trembling and I fear losing my flat
expression. If I lose it, the only alternative
will come and I can't begin it in a phone call and
then turn it off to go do other things.
"I will be looking for you, Francis. I
_want_ you to come here. Please come."
"Shhh... I'll be there. Don't worry."
"Okay." Mary dabs at the underside of one
eye and I have to turn away.
"I'll see you next week, then," she says
softly.
I nod. "Yes."
"Good, and take care of yourself, please.
Please take care of yourself."
"I promise."
I turn off the videophone. I go splash some
cold water on my face and make some rearrangements
in my schedule for the firm and school, based on a
loss in the family. Then I go and sit like stone,
sideways with my knees up to my chin, not seeing
the wall in front of me. I don't feel like I have
any space in this apartment. But that doesn't
make any difference if I don't ever move.
At Mary's house the furniture is wide and
comfortable, and suited to the round figure she
has, although she never is what I would call
anything but right. Her thick hair has the same
highlights that Gordon's has. Had.
I didn't bring much with me, there was
nothing I could bring that could do her any good
except some flowers, and we've each had plenty of
those. I set down my overnight case and she hugs
me close to her before she ever bothers to latch
the front door and bring me all the way inside.
"Francis. Was your trip all right?"
"Yes." I try not to hug her too tightly.
"Anything to drink?"
"Please. Strawberry milk?"
"Yes, you're in luck." She smiles, that
smile that can't help coming in over the ongoing
expression, because humans are made to smile. I
shine my eyes the slightest bit at her.
"Let me get you set down here on the sofa
and put your things in my bedroom. I'd better
take the couch. The bed is nicer."
"I can't take your bed."
"But Francis, please do. I don't want you
sleeping in a living room. It seems all wrong.
I've slept on my couch plenty and I don't mind."
"All right. Mary, are you all right?"
"Yes." She smiles, this time a
meant-to-be-encouraging smile, and hands me my
milk with the strawberry powder stirring itself
around inside the glass. I sit on the sofa and
hold the drink. She goes to a miniature filing
box on a wicker dresser. "I found... this..."
All the pictures of Gordy that weren't on the
web somewhere were lost. All of his music, too,
everything he had owned. Even the stuff he would
never have wanted me to have to remember him by
was lost-- the old elementary-school vid-discs of
his initial attempts at tap-dancing, or his
childhood essay on ice cream or the tabloid
magazine he laughed at and bought one day because
it had something in it about Venusian Hamsters
Taking Over the World. I don't have any of those
things, and he wouldn't have wanted me to have
them anyway, but I watched the investigators go
through the rubble where no remains of Gordy were
ever found, the seared left-behinds of an
unnaturally hot, unaccelerated fire, and shook my
head bitterly because those things, not _even_
those undesired or embarrassing things, could be
retrieved. And that meant that the copies of
music for his shows, like the Irish show, were so
far beyond my reach that I could not hope to ever
even desire their appearance out of the ash. And
his picture of him in the maple frame with his
glasses on, and the one of him in the company for
_Tapfight_ with all the men in tight-fitting black
shirts and devilish enthusiastic eyes.
"I discovered this..." His sister comes back
over to me, holding out a glossy print a few
inches wide, offering it to me as if I may not be
coming in peace, trying to make it right for me to
be here.
I take hold of the photo by the edges. This
is the time for this, then. We expected to cry,
together. I motion for her to sit down next to me
and I bar my face in between crossed arms. I hold
the picture out of range of the salt water. Mary
only sits still for a moment before she is sobbing
beside me. I can't do this silently, forever.
Eventually my voice can't hold itself in. Then
Mary gives up too and takes my hand with the photo
to make me place it on the small coffee table, and
she leans and rocks against me and holds me and I
don't really protest to anything.
Mary tries to speak several times, but
nothing is coherent for a long time. Then, we
both need handkerchiefs. I am usually a gentleman
and have two on me at all times, but of course
this time I would have forgotten and did forget
and she has to go into her purse and bring some
tissues out for each of us. "Dear, Francis, Hon,
I'm so--"
"No," I shake my head almost angrily. "Shh.
Just give me the tissue."
She does so. She shudders and sighs some
more, and still clear tears are running down her
reddened tan cheeks.
I take a handful of tissues in my left hand
and wipe at my eyes with my right, forgetting. I
can't focus on the photo. I was afraid of this.
That I'll never really get a look at it because
I'll never get past the fact that it's of him.
"It's not his best," she says, apologizing.
"I don't know why he let me have it. But there it
is. I didn't know where I'd even put it."
Gordy is blurred, not just because of my
state, but because whoever took the photo couldn't
get him to hold still for it-- it looks like he
was yelling something and smiling, and it was
windy-- the sun was out but there was something
tossing his hair in two or three directions. And
that's all there is. But it's something to hold
onto.
"The Carpenters CD," I say, gasping around
all the strangeness of breath in my throat. I'm
not perfect in the lungs, since that night, and it
may take awhile for the effect to subside.
"He lent it to me..." She begins weeping
again. Immediately, she goes to a CD case and
pulls the one she wants out without really seeing
it, brushing at her eyes with the opposite hand.
I sigh, brace myself, and dry the sides of my
cheeks. "Let's put it in."
"Okay." She does. The preparations for
playing one CD seem to take a night and day unto
themselves. Then it hums into action and begins
playing. I remember that most of the artists
Gordy most admired are dead, and begin weeping
again before any song gets to me by itself. Then
there's "Yesterday Once More", and neither of us
is any more done crying than we were when we
hugged at the door. We cease being any bit
embarrassed around each other and just feed
ourselves and each other from a bowl of chips from
her kitchen, and use up packages of tissues.
Mary hugs me and pats the backs of my
shoulders, backing off and smoothing my hair like
my mother did when my parents came down to see me
and I broke down then, too. It takes us an hour
to calm down. By then we're not in the mood for
supper. We decide to have fruit from the kitchen
and watch old movies until she needs to get some
sleep for her work in the morning. I'll take the
bus home tomorrow.
"Melissa Etheridge," I say, "'Your Little
Secret'. That one piece, 'I Really Like You'."
She laughs. "I know the one you mean.
Francis, is it all right if I laugh? You have to
understand he just amused me so much sometimes."
"_Please_ do. Please laugh. Yes, please
do." I pause and take a sip of the strawberry
milk I now have, my third. "Carly Simon. 'My
Romance'."
"'My Funny Valentine'."
"You know it!"
She nods. "Yes. That was one he played for
me over the phone when he couldn't find the
'right' card, he said."
"I wish..."
There's a pause where neither of us says
anything.
"It's just..." I try to think how to word
this without making it seem like I'm trying to
make her cry again. "I wish for that one. That
CD. I could have cried to it so many times, and I
never did. And now I have to use it and I don't
have it."
She nods. There's another pause. The pause
becomes yet another pause, and slowly I feel the
air changing, past one point and into another as
we sit still, and none of this is familiar to me.
I've never had to have a conversation like this in
my life.
"Francis..."
"Yes."
"He--"
Just as she says it, I open up and say the
same thing.
"He loved you."
We look at each other carefully for a moment,
then hug fearfully tight, "I love you, Brother."
"I love you, Sister." We'll talk like this again,
or we won't. It doesn't matter. "I love you. I
love you." We need to hear it. We need to hear
ourselves say it. Then, we watch some more
movies. I sleep in the bedroom that night, and I
don't like it. It seems enough like it could be a
room of Gordy's that I can hardly sleep in it.
But I know Mary feels better if I take what she
feels is the most comfortable place.
In the morning, when the light has all
shifted again and the outdoors seems blank and
washed-out, Mary puts on her work clothes and work
cosmetics and hugs me for good-bye. "You take
care, Francis. Promise me you'll take care."
"I promise." There's not much else I can say.
"Call me."
"I will."
"Call me if you need _anything_."
"I will." I kiss her on the forehead, and
she kisses me on the cheek, tearfully, fretting
over her appearance but knowing it's no use to
imagine she'll go the day with dry eyes. I may; I
don't know. She keeps the picture of Gordon with
her. I keep the Carpenters CD.
Larry and I stand in his theatre in
Pennsylvania. He is holding my hand. He mulls
over a question I have asked him, about the place,
about naming its repertory company the Firehouse
Group. I know about the fire that Juliet set,
completely unknowing, how it took away the order
of her memories; I know of the loss of his brother
Thim and the wife, Rosemary. My counselor matched
me up with a support network of people with
similar losses to mine, so we would know we
wouldn't have to explain too much to each other
before just saying what we had to say.
"I guess..." Larry bites his lip and stares
hard at the opposite end of the space where we
stand, in an aisle between rows of director's
chairs set up for the absent audience. "Maybe
it's kind of like a memorial. Their names are on
the Theatre proper, but if their deaths are also
intertwined with the actors there, what with two
Dalmatians being involved, and the Group name
referring to an establishment that would try to
save them, then... It makes them more immediate,
in all parts of life. And someday I'll be gone.
No one is going to be around forever. It could do
more harm to let it go, to not remind Juliet
anymore. So somehow I feel at home here." He
looks at me, and his eyes are very blue. I'm
still not used to them after having only brown
eyes so close in my frame of vision. "And I hope
you do, too."
Firehouse. Yes. But I can't exactly call
firefighters my heroes. I can't call fire a
demonic thing, either. I can't hate what Gordon
became. He was my lover. Fire is him. But I can
understand why it has to have the place it has. I
tighten my hold on his hand. "I do. You're
right, Fire means too many things to belong to one
person's... sorrow. Meaning."
Larry turns away again, but he seems
completely with me. "Ever notice... Seems the
world always goes on. After my brother and
sister-in-law died, and Juliet... changed forever,
everything around us is supposed to go on. That's
what they _say_. And that's how it _seems_. But
in practice, there's always one thing that is
never the same."
He looks to see if he's making
any sense. I nod, feeling a tightening in my
chest, and blinking back something I hadn't been
ready for. Larry goes on: "For the whole of
creation. Somehow, just never the same. It seems
like now when I look at some things and I hear
another person talking about something as if
nothing is different, I feel like they are lying.
Pretending for my sake that my perception never
shifted theirs in one thought, one-- fear.
"Did you know the pyramids used to go up, and
now they go down? The flow of their stones, the
way they reach and weather, it used to all be
towards the sky. After Thim and his wife died and
my niece came to live with me, the pyramids
changed. And everyone has been very polite about
it ever since, but it's there all the same."
I feel my place that begins these things
opening up, and I thought I was going to be clear
and unaffected today, but though I manage to speak
I know I may feel it all come back again before
the end of the night. "I'm afraid I have had the
same experience with the moon. It's not my fault
as such, I know, but ever since Gordy disappeared
the moon has not been what it used to be."
Lawrence puts an arm around my shoulders,
standing taller than I, his brow furrowed. "Well,
for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry about the
pyramids."
"And I about the moon. I forgive you for the
pyramids. Do you think perception can change
something's reality for everyone else, forever?"
"I don't know... Yes."
I wonder, if it can, and if it has, whether
all my being the rabbit has to do with is my own
perceptions. And if I imagined Gordy going up
like that, whether he was changed or whether he
was immune to my perceptions. I wonder if Gordy
realizes that he's gone.
I slowly focus on the figure sitting a few
feet away from the bed, his shirt glowing in its
light color with the dark of a brown or... some
other color of Cardigan around it. I shake my
head a little and get the black with orange trim
Cardigan clear, then Larry's beard, and his face
with one finger lining the side of his cheek as he
looks back at me. "Swamp rabbit," he says.
I respond, mentally, but no sound comes out.
I lay back and try again, this time to the
ceiling. I feel like I should have a headache but
am too tired to have one. Changing really wreaks
havoc on my body. I don't think I could take very
frequent occurrences. "What do you mean?"
"Swamp rabbit. I told you I would get a
book, and I did. It took me three books to find
which one you look like. Here, there are two
pictures. I'm betting on the swamp rabbit,
instead of the marsh rabbit. You be the judge."
He reaches to take a book from the bedside table,
and hands it, opened, to me. "Right there." He
points to a picture.
I look, blearily, then with clearing vision.
It's always my eyes that take the most adjusting.
I don't know why. Maybe they change more slowly
or something. The rest of it sure seems sudden,
so I don't know. "That one," I say finally.
"Yes, the... swamp rabbit. Well, for what that's
worth, now we know."
He nods. "You all right?"
I rub at my temple. "Yes. Don't worry about
me. I remember you said you'd get the book. I
was just so tired, and then it takes a minute for
everything to come back. But it's all here."
"So you know what's been going on, then."
"Yes."
"I tried to come up here and tell you when
you were still the rabbit, but you had gone fast
asleep. It was quite cute, actually. Your eyes
all shut tight and your little nose moving from
your breathing."
I grin, slightly embarrassed. "Yeah...
well..."
"You missed the first half of the speeches
and all the other pre-exhibit jazz, by now. You
still interested in going out?"
"Are you going?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm coming too." I make a few false
starts at uprighting myself and heading for my
clothing, but eventually I'm up. I fumble with my
trousers right away and Larry chuckles, not
unsympathetically.
"You all right there? Can you get dressed
yourself?"
"_Yes_ I can get dressed myself."
"Just checking."
I button my shirt swiftly, although my
fingers are a bit clumsy yet, and slide my jacket
on and find my yellow handkerchief to arrange at
the pocket.
Larry watches me, hands folded over one knee.
I smile at him a little while I walk back and
forth on the flat carpeting. It seems I always
have something across the room that I desperately
need during each stage of dressing.
"Francis?"
"Mm-hm." I'm lifting my chin, tying my
cherry-red ascot. I have to cross the room to
find my mascara.
"The first time I asked you."
I lean in towards the mirror, carefully
considering how much my complexion will be
affected by having just had a seizure. "Asked me
what?"
He stands up, stepping closer. "To come East
with me. You accepted, the first time. Why?"
"Oh." I grin up at him, small black brush in
hand. It's all I can do not to swipe it through
his beard, just once. I want to see him smirk or
become agitated. "Something my lover used to
say."
Larry leans on the wall by the mirror and
seems to know I'm contemplating doing something to
tease him, because one hand is just about ready to
deflect any approach on my part. "What did he
used to say?"
"Well... He didn't _used_ to say much of
anything, really. I didn't... Have him long
enough to hear him repeat most of his sentences
and phrases. About the only thing he repeated
that I remember him repeating was 'I love you'."
I realize that it takes several moments for
Larry to react and suddenly I worry that I've
offended him. I really don't want to have
offended him. I'd do anything now to make him
forget it if I said anything that offended him.
Finally he says, "That's why you came?"
I nod yes.
He smiles. Larry has dimples; they are
nearly obscured by his beard, most of the time. I
think he could stand a more boyish look, but who
am I to talk. "I'm glad."
"Me too." Thank goodness, he knows enough
about the pieces of me that need to be left where
they are right now so that I don't put on anything
but a professional face for the other art
enthusiasts.
He leaves the topic details for after, in the
dark, or some other time when we'll be talking
alone over some drink or an art periodical.
"Thank you," I add spontaneously.
"You're so welcome, Francis. I don't think
you know how easy it is for me to say that. You
are welcome."
"I feel welcome. Thank you."
Larry takes my arm to go out. "You're very
nice to look at. I thought I'd say that now,
before we spoke only on the appearances of Art."
I stop him at the door, turning to fix my
eyes on his. "Thank you. You look wonderful, as
well."
He dimples and almost turns his head away.
Maybe I'm not the only one so easily affected.
"Let us go," he says with a dramatic cough.
"You're making me feel unprofessional."
I grin. "Yes, let's. And I'm not sorry."