Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
There’s no commitment through the basic lenses. There’s no expectation to take an award-winning photo, or one I can sell to make a living or build a career. I take photos of things that make me think or bring me pleasure. In that case, I should have albums full of Keats. But I don’t even have one.
Pictures don’t matter. He does.
I’m afraid they’ll require proof that I can’t produce to see him, so I wait and fret for her to return and hand me my fate.
I pull the hat from my head and scrape my hair back from my forehead. Twirling the hat around at my hip doesn’t help time tick any quicker. I scan the area and the nurses in scrubs behind the counter, the docs chatting quietly just around the corner. The waiting room is full, and the old TV hung in the corner has a static line running through it. My back stiffens as soon as I see her. “Anything?”
She stops and waves me down the hall. I hurry to catch up, both excited that I might have found him and terrified that I’ve found him in the hospital, which means he’s injured. Or worse. I’m holding my breath when she says, “It might be him. Are you open to seeing if—?”
“Yes,” I blurt, my hands already shaking from the prospect that it’s Keats.
She turns on her soft-soled shoes and leads me four doors down from where we were standing. The door is already cracked open, so she turns and whispers, “Please don’t speak to the patient. He needs his rest. If you recognize him, we’ll get his information, and then you wait for him to wake up in the waiting room near the entrance.”
I’m already nodding, anxious to see if it’s him. “Okay.”
Pushing the door open, she stands against it with the handle tucked in her hands behind her back. It’s dark in the room, but even with the little available light, I’d know my Poet anywhere. “That’s him,” I whisper as if I need her approval. I hurry to his side without it and grip the railing of the bed. One eye is angry red, and his cheek on that side is swollen from a hard impact. With a bandage and an ice pack tucked under it, it’s distressing to see him in this shape. The loose neckline of the hospital gown shows bruising on his shoulder. Tears spring to my eyes as I imagine the pain he must be in. Looking back, I ask, “What happened?”
The nurse signals me outside the room. I don’t want to leave him, though. What if he wakes up when I’m gone? He’ll be all by himself. The thought makes me feel sick. It would be awful. “Miss?” A hard nod toward the door is all I need to know I’m on borrowed time. I reach down and gently touch Keats’s hand, and whisper, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
When I turn, his fingers grapple for mine. “Spark?”
I rush to caress a part of him not swollen or in pain, but I don’t know where it’s safe to land. I wrap my fingers around the railing and lean over it. “I’m here, Poet. Right by your side.”
The squeak of the nurses’ shoes alerts me to look back and catch the eye roll as she shuts the door. “I’ll be back with the paperwork,” she says, knowing it’s futile to argue with me. I’m not leaving him. Not ever.
“Hey there, you had me worried.”
Wincing, he groans in response. “Sorry I didn’t show.”
“No. It’s okay.” I skate my hands over his arm, still unsure where I can touch him without adding to his pain. “I’m just glad I found you. But what happened?”
“Three guys walk into the station.” When he stops to chuckle but then groans again, I’m not sure if he’s telling the story or trying to land a joke.
“Keats?” I slip my hand under his, leaving it to him if he feels he can hold it without hurting himself. We’re touching, so that’s all that matters to me. “Is that what really happened?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it with the one eye that still has the capability. After taking several shallow breaths, he opens his eyes and says, “I was jumped in the subway. Pretty sure I was robbed as well, but I’d have to ask the nurses.” My own breath has shallowed as a sob rattles my chest. I try hard to keep the tears at bay, but my vision is going blurry faster than I can erase the image of him being attacked. A tear slips down my cheek, landing on the back of his hand. When his fingers curl around mine, he says, “I’m going to be alright. You know how I know?”
“No,” I whisper, losing my voice to alarm bells ringing in my head from how bad his injuries are. “How do you know that?”