Reminders of You

Thump, thump, thump. I wake to an incessant thumping. What time is it? I force my tear-stained swollen eyes open to check the clock. 3:46 am. How long have I been sleeping? It couldn’t have been long. Thump, thump, thump, thump. What the hell is that noise? I’m practically startled off the bed by the loud ringing of the hotel phone. Jesus! Who is calling me right now? I sleepily answer the phone, “Hello?” It’s Morris asking me to please answer the door. “Door? What door?” My brain is still half asleep, “My suite door? Why?” Morris tells me the man has been knocking for a good ten minutes at least and other guests have been calling to complain about him. “Man in the hallway? What man?” I ask. He begs for me to please open the door, or he’ll have to call security. I have no idea why security would need to be involved, but I trust Morris. So, I get up to do as he asks. Thump, thump, thump, once again as I approach the door. “I’m coming! Hold your horses,” I shout out to the persistent early hour caller. I swing the door open to a barely recognizable Sam, dripping wet, pale and swollen in the face. His teeth are chattering and is lips seem to show a tinge of blue in contrast to his red rimmed eyes. “Oh my God, Sam! Did you walk here?”               “R-r-r-ran,” he stutters.               “In the rain? Jesus, that’s got to be at least three miles!” I say pulling him into the suite.               “F-f-five point th-three k-k-kilometers to be p-precise,” he says, shaking uncontrollably.               “Of course, you’d know that. You’re dripping wet. Take off your coat.” He doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at me, shaking like a leaf in the wind while a puddle forms on the tile floor underneath him. He is not himself… or is it me that’s seeing him differently? “Are you okay?”               “I c-ca…” He squeezes his eyes shut and a tear rolls down his cheek. I don’t want to see him distraught like this. Not right now. His vulnerability is one of the things I love most about him, but he’s made his own bed and I have every right to be furious. “Let’s just focus on getting you dried up.” I step closer to him, and he doesn’t try to reach for me like I foolishly expect him to. I should know better. He’s respecting my earlier request for him not to touch me. He knows me well enough to allow me to set the pace when I’m overwhelmed, but right now it stings a little that he’s not making the effort. I pretend it doesn’t bother me. “Are you going to remove your coat, or do I have to do it for you?” He hesitates for a quick moment, staring into my soul as if daring me to go ahead. I’m sure he’s debating whether he should just let me do it so I would voluntarily have to get closer to him, but in the end, he decides to do it himself. He struggles to grasp the opening of his coat as if he can’t control his fingers. He starts trying to shrug it off with his shoulders in compensation. I’d blame the shivering, but even so, I find the way he’s maneuvering to be peculiar. I give in and help him out by spreading the opening of his coat over his shoulders and guiding it down his arms. His fingers brush my wrist and my eyes snap to his. I drop the coat to the floor and take his hands in mine. His freezing cold hands…               “Sam! Your hands are like ice!” I’d forgotten that he left his gloves in Ewan’s car. Sam ran over three miles in the freezing November rain with no gloves. “You stupid, stupid man,” I scold as I hold his cold hands in my own warm ones and bring them to my cheek.               “C-can’t f-f-feel any-th-thing.,” he says still shivering like I’ve never seen. Shit. He’s on the brink of hypothermia if not there already.               “We need to get you out of these wet clothes… now!” There’s not an inch of him that’s dry under the useless coat and by the looks of him with his blue tinted lips, his body temp has definitely plummeted. “Jesus, Sam. Did you even zip up your coat?” I ask as I whip his wet sweater vest over his head. He shakes his head. “Why the hell not?” “D-didn’t think-k of it.”               I start undoing the buttons of his damp shirt. How did the rain manage to absorb through three layers?  “Well, what the hell were you thinking of, if not self-preservation?”               His eyes lock on my face. “You,” he says using his frigid, shaky hands to press my hands to his chest.               I’d be lying if I said his response didn’t affect me, but I’m trying to keep my emotions at bay. “Foolishness,” I tell him, continuing to the rest of the buttons, “What good are you to me dead from hypothermia?”                “I’d rather b-be d-d-d-dead than without-t you.”               “Stop it! Don’t talk like that.” I unhook the last button and slide his shirt off his incredibly glacial, clammy, goosepimpled skin. His tremors seem to worsen as I go for his belt buckle next. His teeth can no longer be described as chattering… they are now so loud, they’re clamoring. I fear he’ll rip his tongue to shreds if it happens to mistakenly get in the way. I make a mental note to call Sophie, the medical student, and ask her how to safely get his body temperature back to normal.               He hugs himself, shivering like mad, “C-c-christ, it’s s-so c-c-cold.”