Prometheus (LGBT+) ✔

10. Ἐξηγήσεις (Explanations)

"Dante? Dante." There's a hand on my shoulder. It moves. Gone. "Dante? Can you see me? Breathe with me." He sucks in air, holds it, and out it goes. Again. I listen and I try it too. Again. "Good, okay. Keep doing that." Again. There's rustling, but the hand doesn't come back. I hear a faucet, water in a glass. The hands are on the table. They have little hairs on them. They're darker than mine, close to mine. I could touch them, but mine tremble. I look up and I see Emile. Right. Emile.

"Are you okay? I think you had a panic attack." I can't move my tongue, my mouth. I don't have a tongue or a mouth. I'm just breathing, looking. "Alright. Uhm, keep breathing. Focus on the table maybe? I'll brew you a cup of chamomile. Right." He moves, switches on the kettle, rummages in a cupboard. It's tiring to listen, so I close my eyes and feel. Didn't he mention the table? It's warm where my forehead rests, so I move it. Cool. There are scratches in the table, a long line that goes from my nose to somewhere under my wrist. There's also an old stain close to my thumb.

The cup thumps when it is set on the table and I smell the tea. I don't lift my head, but I reach out and touch it. It's hot and something settles. I inhale and exhale and it settles deeper and deeper, something to hold on to. Emile is - No, let go. Let it out, relax. No thinking yet. Emile is here and we will talk, but not yet.

I sit up and curl both my hands around the cup, sipping slowly.

"Are you ... okay now?" Emile sits down in front of me.

"I'm fine. Sorry for ..."

"It's alright. I understand." His tone suggests he doesn't, but I don't comment on it. "Uhm ..."

"Can I drink my tea? Then you can ask your questions." Something stirs, but I focus on the heat of the tea and on my breathing. It will be okay. Emile will give me a fair chance.

"Take your time. I'm still processing."

We sit in silence. Emile's watching me, but his gaze is sort of distant. Every time my thoughts threaten to stray, I yank them back. There's only breathing, tea, the table, the clock. Only this moment counts; not the millions before, nor the millions after.

I set my cup down with a little clang. "What do you want to know?"

Emile doesn't react immediately. "So you have HIV?"

"I do. I think so."

"How's that possible?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I don't get sick, you know. But then I did, and I got better, and the next day I got sick again, and I got better, and so on and so forth." I pause. My cup is empty. I gesture at the glass of water. "Can I?" I drink and the something in me settles again.

"Next I met you and your talk about Aids made me wonder. I looked it up and it made sense, so I ordered a self-test and it was positive."

"But how? Do you sleep with your - you know?"

"Huh? No!" That'd be worse than feeding. I don't like drinking, but I need it and I don't need that. I'm technically still a priest anyway.

"How then?"

"Shouldn't you know all the ways HIV can be transmitted?"

"Are you an addict? Oh, of course you are. That's why you claim that you - "

"I'm not an addict. It's just ... Blood, you know?"

Emile deflates. "Oh. Right. You'll have to excuse me. We're both messes this evening. It's just ... a shock. You understand." I do. I'm not the one whose world was turned upside down and here I am panicking while he is handling it so elegantly. Christ, I thought I was over this. I can enter monasteries without crippling fear. I can function in society. I am not the recluse that I once was, the one everyone whispers about, the one who fails at being part of the crowd. I don't talk Italian anymore when I can't fall asleep, just to keep my father alive.