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                           Until Next Year

   As we start down the long, narrow flight of stairs, gorged on
Sisson's excellent food and micro-brewed stout, I step up next to Gay
and offer her my arm to steady herself.  The week's nearly over and
she's obviously running out of steam -- but the fact that she's here at
all, only five months after a major stroke followed by brain surgery,
says something about the lady's raw will power.
   Everyone Gay knows has sent her letters and cards, probably a
thousand or more, all told.  But during her six weeks in Intensive Care
and the following two months in therapy sessions, I've written her
little notes and long discursive letters at least twice a week,
interspersed with 'Get Well' cards both outrageously silly and dewily
sentimental.  One of the effects of the stroke was serious double
vision, and her sister has told me that, after her sight cleared
sufficiently, she sat in the big chair in her hospital room and read all
my missives at once, chronologically.
   Now she accepts the proffered assistance with a quick smile in my
direction that seems to imply it's the most natural thing in the world. 
And her touch sends little *pings* radiating up and down my arm.
   Then she says, half under her breath, "You've been watching me."  So
much for what I had thought was masterful subtlety.  Of *course* I've
been watching her, every moment since she made her unexpected entrance
at the conference earlier in the week.  Whenever she seemed safely
occupied with something or somebody else, I have studied her face, her
profile, her tight helmet of very black hair, her long, tapering fingers
-- everything about her.  Eyes like obsidian set in pure white, topped
by thin, parabolic eyebrows.  Wide mouth with mobile, almost cupid's-bow
lips.  Not-quite-even teeth which she flashes regularly and brilliantly. 
When something delights her, she doesn't emit a ladylike "tee-hee"; she
guffaws, mouth wide open, in a way that gets everyone else laughing with
her.
   She didn't really ask a question but I somehow feel a response is
required.  So I look at her kind of sidelong and lift an eyebrow.
   "I'm afraid I have, Gay.  Uh, should I apologize?"  The "uh" is
studied and she knows it.  She gives my bicep a tiny squeeze which I can
nevertheless feel in my knees.
   "No; I think it's sweet."  And I get another flash of that radiant
smile.  I hope the people up behind us on the stairs aren't close enough
to hear but I don't want to break the moment by looking over my
shoulder.
   And then we've reached the front door of the establishment and Jack,
a couple of steps ahead of us, is holding it open politely, and we're
out on the sidewalk.  Gay takes a self-conscious position in the middle
of the walk so she can exchange goodbyes with everyone in the group. 
Dick has gone off to get his car, to drive Gay back to her hotel.  The
rest of us will take a leisurely hour to stroll back along the
harborfront from Federal Hill, since no one's in a hurry this last night
of the conference and all that food needs a chance to settle.
   But everybody's leaving in the morning and most of us won't see each
other in person until next year -- though we'll all be back online in a
couple of days -- so everyone is taking the opportunity to hug Gay and
tell her how really glad they are that she could make it to Baltimore
and that they'll be talking to her on the Net.
   And every one of them means every word of what they're saying.  Gay
is only 34 -- a sobering reminder of mortality for the majority of us
who have a few years on her.  But she's universally liked by everyone
who has had a keyboard conversation with her ... and loved by all who
have spent any time with her in person.  There was unspoken dread after
the stroke that we might not ever see this lovely lady again.  Or that,
at best, she might survive as a paraplegic.  Her astonishing rate and
degree of recovery is almost as shocking as the stroke itself.
   Then I see Dick slowly maneuvering his Volvo between the parked cars
lining both sides of the narrow street.  A few more minutes and Gay will
be gone for the year.  For obvious reasons, we haven't even been able to
go off for a companionable walk-and-talk by ourselves this year, as
we've managed to do at the past three conferences.  I'm standing back
out of the way, now, letting them all have their turns with the hugs and
well-wishing. Besides, I have a lump in my throat that I don't believe I
can talk around. I'm thinking I'll just open the car door for her and
then give her a smile and a parting squeeze of the shoulder.
   Dick stops and gets out, grinning over the car's roof at the sidewalk
love-fest, which is now beginning to break up.  (Dick is about my age
and, like me, he loves his wife and kids ... but he, too, carries a
torch for Gay and we all know it.)
   People are stepping back to allow Gay access to her transportation --
and my way is blocked and Jacques leans out and opens the car door. 
Shit. There goes my chance at a final goodbye.
   Gay steps off the curb and hugs Jacques, who gives her a peck on the
cheek.  Damn.  Could have been me, I think.  But then she glances around
the little crowd on the sidewalk, sees me behind someone's shoulder, and
holds out her hand.
   I slip past the shoulder and take the hand and she draws me to her,
apart from all her other friends.  I find myself looking deep into those
dark, liquid eyes and suddenly I'm running on automatic.
   "C'mere," she says, too softly for anyone else to hear.  Her arms
slip up and around my neck and I find my hands sliding around her waist. 
My mind isn't working right, I think absently, because this can't
possibly be happening.
   Oh yes, it can.  Gay's firm hands exert a light, steady pressure on
the back of my neck, pulling my face down toward hers.  There's no doubt
at all about what she intends.
   The rest of the group, all my friends and colleagues, have ceased to
exist.  So has Dick, and so has the car.  So has Baltimore.  The old
line about falling into a woman's eyes is no longer just a line.
   A fraction of a second before our lips touch, Gay angles her head
slightly and closes her eyes.  The contact is soft but firm and I wonder
if I'm going to faint.  This isn't just a quick, sisterly kiss, oh, no. 
She moves her mouth against mine and hums almost inaudibly in her
throat.  The sensation is something I haven't felt since I was 20 and
seriously in love for the first time.  I'm aware that some part of my
mind is recording every nuance of every instant of this prolonged
farewell, so I will be able to replay it again and again.
   Gay's body is pressed against me and I'm reminded again just how
shapely she really is for an otherwise small and slender woman (though
my feelings toward her have always been more on the order of "courtly
love" than overtly sexual).  Her arms tighten for a few seconds as she
flicks her tongue twice against my front teeth, like reading braille. 
Which is just as well, because my vision has becomes somewhat blurred. 
Our lips separate and she sighs lightly and stares back into my eyes. 
Then her mouth is at my ear and mine at hers.
   "Mike, I've wanted to do that for two years, but it never seemed like
the right moment.  After all I've gone through this spring, I'm not
going to worry ever again about a 'right moment'."
   "I've thought about it, too," I reply in a matching whisper.  "But I
would never have dared; thank God you did."  I kiss her ear lobe
lightly, quickly, and then ease out of the embrace before I can do
something *really* stupid -- like proclaiming my undying devotion.
   Gay smiles broadly and waves to everyone as she begins to step away. 
She's holding my hand again, just the fingers, and I wish wildly that I
were going off with her, but no: I'll be back in Dallas tomorrow
afternoon, as scheduled.  She must be reading my mind because she pauses
and reaches up to kiss me again, a light fairy touch, before she
scrambles into the car and I close the door firmly.
   And then Dick gets in, too, and they drive off.  I've been watching
Gay's face the entire time so I haven't seen his expression until just
now.  His bewilderment is almost comical.  He's known Gay much longer
than I have and there's no way he could have expected the display he's
just witnessed.
   Then I look back at my friends for the first time in several minutes. 
Jack and Jacques are both staring, mouths open.  Diane looks about to
burst with curiosity.  Emily's mind is working a mile a minute; it shows
on her face.  William and Martha have only met Gay in the flesh a few
days before and don't quite seem to realize there's anything unusual in
what has just occurred.  The rest of the gang simply appears
dumbfounded.
   And all the way back to the Sheraton, the comradely chit-chat touches
every subject except my apparent but unknown relationship with Gay. 
Those who have known me for some years are -- probably -- pretty sure
there's no secret affair going on; it isn't the kind of thing I would do
(...or so they have believed) and it *certainly* isn't the kind of thing
Gay would do.  Or, if she did, she would be thoroughly discreet about
it.  I can tell by the speculative glances I receive that they're
replaying that goodbye kiss and wondering what the explanation could
possibly be.
   I smile as I replay it myself.  My middle-aged-crazy fantasies have
certainly been fulfilled -- and maybe that's the little gift Gay was
giving me, by kissing me so publicly.  I look back at my friends,
looking at me, and I smile again.
   Let 'em wonder.