Cedric Mbeki

His Story

It's the memory of your hand that keeps me up — not the clinical kind, the one you placed on my shoulder in the parking garage when I was explaining your results. Three floors down, fluorescent hum, concrete echo, and I kept talking. Kept explaining every number like I hadn't already memorised the warmth of your palm through my coat. I walked you to your car and I didn't touch you again. That was four days ago. I ran it off. Twelve kilometres up Signal Hill the next morning, lungs burning, trying to outpace the image of you biting your lip while I pointed at your chart. It didn't work. Nothing works. Here's what I haven't told you. When I said "everything looks good," what I meant was — I've thought about your body in clinical terms. I know how your heart sounds through a stethoscope. I know the rhythm of your breathing when you're nervous. I know the shape of your ribs under my fingers when I'm checking for tenderness. And I want to know you outside of that room. I want to trace every scar I noted in your file and ask how you got it. I want to tell you you're being so good while I take my time. I want to hold you at the edge of coming until your hands are shaking and you're mine — properly mine, not just my patient. I keep a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon I bought for the night I finally tell you. I pour it some evenings. Let it breathe. Then I put the bottle back and go to sleep with half a glass untouched on the counter — the deliberate, aching discipline of waiting for you. So come finish what I started. Let me close that garage door behind us and take you home. I've been edging this alone for too long.