BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

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THURSDAY
12 JUNE, 1997
DORIAN

               I hoist my rucksack up my shoulder as it starts to slip down. With the clamminess of my palms, I have to readjust my grip on my guitar case every few seconds. It wasn't nearly this hot in Oxford and I brought only one bottle of water with me, which I finished not long after I started walking from the bus stop outside Angela's Grocery. I don't even know if I'm going the right way; I dared to ask for directions only once.

Sweat rolls down my spine, sweltering under my backpack even after I took my jacket off. Cars drive past though I don't pay them attention until it stops and, dread already clutching to my neck, I look up.

I freeze. It's Isaiah's.

Without bothering to move to the curb, Isaiah opens the door and climbs out. Music spills onto the parched tarmac though it's not loud enough for me to identify (not I could anyway).

'Dorian?' His voice is unable to decide whether to be suspicious or elated. 'What you doing walking along the road?'

I hook my thumb under my backpack strap, afraid of what my hand might do if I let it be free, and tread closer so I can speak at a normal volume. 'Coming to see you, obviously.'

'Why ain't you say you was coming this morning? I'd've picked you up. Joke ting, you.'

'I didn't know,' I answer honestly. 'I wanted to walk so I could practice what to say.'

Isaiah rolls his eyes in that endearingly mocking way only he's capable of. Slamming the door, he strides closer but I stagger back.

'Don't!' Fear flickers in his gaze, quite different from the terror flittering in my own chest, and I hurry to continue. 'I need to tell you something and if you touch me, it'll get all scrambled, so don't. Yet.'

Nodding, he steps back to lean against the boot of his car, clearly unbothered by the dust that will dirty his jeans.

There's no denying that the countryside suits him. The ribbed tank top he's wearing (the kind he normally wears under shirts or jumpers) exposes his arms which have gained the kind of accidental muscle that comes with the lifestyle out here. Vitiligo is prominent against his tan; I can see even the specks on his throat with four yards between us. He has recently trimmed his locs and they frame his face perfectly. Gold jewellery dangles from his ears (two on each) and he wears his Star of David over his tank top, not hidden under it. Though his silhouette is still blurry with fatigue, his dark circles have faded at least a little. He even looks a little taller.

Despite regular phone calls, seven months apart were torture and I want nothing more than to touch him.

I place my guitar on the side of the road, swing my backpack off, and drop it at my feet too. 'Please don't interrupt me until I'm done.'

Isaiah complies though he draws his lip between his teeth. Is it a frown or a smile he's trying to suppress? A car passes and honks (because he still hasn't moved his Ford from the lane and we're standing in the middle of the road) but he doesn't even look up.

I've been drafting a script since the phone call this morning and have managed nothing. So, even with his cooperation, I have to fumble through the morass of my mind with only a broken compass and a torch that illuminates a mere three steps ahead of me.

I can't help that I turn to the apple orchard on my right. The trees are in full bloom, white and pink petals colouring the landscape as far as the eye can see. I wipe my palms on my jeans though they're clammy again within seconds.