The Rise and Fall of the Paralegal

            A crowd of men, mostly straight men, jumped up and down in the white strobe-lit fog of Excalibur. They faced a stage, which had a D.J. who was spinning techno noise that was almost as white sounding as the fog that filled the air. It was as if 1,000 men were waiting for the arrival of the Mother Ship to beam them to another place.  I’d not been to Excalibur in nearly 20 years since my college days, but the promise of finally meeting the Paralegal set me on a mission. After a month of good text and a few phone conversations, it was time to actualize the virtual.

            The Paralegal was in the crowd, and when I spotted him from a distance, my eyes locked on him as I swam upstream through the flow of the crowd before standing right in front of him.  We had been texting for a month after bumping into each other on Grindr.

            He recognized me right away, and we both broke into huge smiles. His beauty was breathtaking, and as I looked into his grin and the depth of his eyes, a voice said to me, this man could never love me.

            I ignored the voice in my head, his face containing the softness of compassion, like a giant ball of sunshine, and we locked into an embrace.  A couple of inches taller than me, with long runner’s legs, his arms wrapped around me, we were engulfed in a sphere of white light.

           

            * * *

            Over the next several weeks, our interactions would increase.  We would spend Sunday afternoons at the Boat Show, or going to a movie. Sometimes, just walking around the city, snapping photos.  A recent transplant to Chicago, I’d share the history of the neighborhoods as we walked, sometimes walking as much as ten miles in a day.

            One afternoon, we found ourselves at a bar in River North, and, for some reason, we were the only two people in the bar.  We stat down and struck up a conversation with the bartender.

            “What would you like?” she asked

            I thought about it for a moment. 

             “I’ll have whatever is most trendy right now.”

             “Well it’s all about the gin right now.  Gin is making a comeback.”

            “Is it? Why’s that?”

            “I think the manufacturers are trying to make it the new vodka, infusing it with flavors and aromas.”  She set up a line of glasses on the bar and started pulling gin bottles from her rack, pouring a taste from each bottle into a glass.

            The Paralegal and I tasted the various gins she poured, noticing the distinct flavors and scents of lavender, floral, and spice.

            “Gin is one of those classic old-school alcohols that your grandparents would have drank,” she explained. “But it’s coming back in fashion.”

            “So make something classic, yet sophisticated.”

            She strummed her fingers on the bar, pulling more bottles from the rack. 

            “I’m going to make you both a drink called the Aviator.  It’s something your grandparents would have definitely drank, and what makes it the Aviator is an alcohol you mix it with that is no longer manufactured.  But I can simulate the flavor of it by mixing a few other things together.”

            The Paralegal ran his hand along the inside of my thigh, and leaned into me, whispering, “I love this.”

            She poured the gin concoction into a martini glass and then added the zest of a lemon with a twist before sliding the martini glass our direction.  The Paralegal sipped it.

            “THAT is REALLY good.” His eyes were wide with excitement.

            I took a sip.

            “Oh, yeah. Definitely something you would drink on the deck of an ocean liner as you were on a trans-continental journey.”

            The Paralegal laughed.

            “It is!”

            “You know, I should have you re-write our menu.”

            “Well, mix me something else, and I’ll tell you what it is.”

            For the rest of the afternoon, we sipped gin martinis and imagined where we might be when drinking them, but completely content with where we were and who we were with.  The Paralegal provided the exact sort of companionship I had hoped for on a lazy weekend afternoon, and willingness to go on an adventure to see where it might go.

            * * *

            One Friday night in early February, the Paralegal was actually let out of work at a decent hour. We decided to cross paths for dinner and drinks. We had established he was a fan of all-Asian foods, and was convinced he was Chinese of Vietnamese in a former lifetime, so I suggested a restaurant between us that was clearly American in its menu selection, but the chef has prepared traditional American meals with a heavy Asian influence.  The setting is visual, with whimsical chandeliers and thick velvet drapes lined with corded fringe. I figured it would appeal to both the Paralegal’s food tastes, as well as his artistic side that he had begun to share with me through the photos he would text of his day.

            It’s a romantic setting and the host sat us down at a table by the window. The same table I had sat at with the Lawyer almost eight months earlier.

            “Should we get a bottle of wine?” I asked.

            “I love wine.”

            “What kind of wine do you like?”

            “I don’t really know.  I just buy wine by the label, really. Whether or not I like the packaging.”

            “That’s always an important factor for me, too.  Do you like fruity or dry?”

            “Fruity, but not too fruity.”

            “Okay. How about heavy or lighter?”

            “Lighter.”

            “Flavorful or sweet?”

            “Flavorful.”

            “How about a pinot noir? A red that doesn’t quite behave like some of the traditional reds.  Light, aromatic, sometimes with a little spice.”

            “That sounds wonderful.”  Our serve disappeared to go get the bottle.

            “I really like how you describe things.  It’s easy to picture.  Imagine.”  He said.  Our hands were resting on top of the table, and we leaned forward, our fingers intertwined and stayed knotted on top of the table for the rest of dinner.

            Conversation with the Paralegal was easy. He was an active listener, who contributed as much to the conversation as he took away. He opened up, and shared about his work, his family, and his previous relationship. He told me how learning to cook Indian food with his neighbor, who has since moved to India to be closer to her family and take care of the family elephant, is what empowered him to start running.  And now he runs every day, for it was running that saved him, giving him the strength to leave his pervious boyfriend of six years, who happened to be an abusive alcoholic. This man controlled all the money in their relationship, and prevented him from having friends or going out to see the world.  Even worse, this man beat the Paralegal so badly one night, he broke the paralegal’s leg; he had me feel the notch in his shin.

            “It must be hard to let all that go,” I said, baffled at how someone could beat someone so beautiful on both the surface and deep down inside.

            “I don’t hate him,” he said. “I never hated him, and in the two years since I moved out, I’ve come to be grateful for the experience I had because it’s what has made me strong today.”

            My heart hurt for him, sorry that he had to experience so much pain, and yet I admired his spirit so much and his ability to look beyond all of it as a lesson that helped to create who he is. I squeezed his hand.

            “So tell me something else, Sunshine,” I said.

            “Well.”  He leaned back for a moment, thinking to a topic we had never covered before.  “I always got in trouble in high school and had to go to the principal’s office a lot.”

            “Really? Why is that?”

            “I went to a Catholic high school, and all the teachers were nuns.  And some of the nuns had taken a vow of silence, so you were not supposed to talk to them. But I would always ask them why they couldn’t speak.  And they wouldn’t answer. But others would speak up for them and say its because they have taken a vow, but I wanted to know why they took a vow, you know?”

            The Paralegal sipped his wine.

            “Did you ever learn why they took a vow?”

            “No, I didn’t.  Just got sent to the principal’s office. And then he would get mad at me and just tell me its because they took a vow and I was to stop asking.  But all I wanted to know is why they took a vow.”

            “I love that story.”

            “You do?”

            “Yes.”

            “Why do you love that story?”

            “I love that story because it says something about who you are. It’s more than just where you went to school or something that happened to you, but it’s about you and who you are?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You are Sunshine. You have this curiosity about the world.  You want to know why it works the way it does, and you’re not afraid to ask.  I like that.  I find it very appealing.”

            “I think you have a curiosity about the world, and I like how you see it, too.”

            “Well, thank you. But it strikes me that as you have gone through your life with this natural curiosity and this desire to run free and experience it. But in high school the Nuns of Silence prevented you from even asking, and your former boyfriend did everything to prevent that.”

            The Paralegal became silent for a moment. He took a bite from his food while squeezing my hand.

            “You know, I’ve never really thought about all that in that way before,” he said.  “I’ve never connected the together. That’s interesting. Thank you.”

            When we finished dinner, I asked if he would like to go for a drink at the Fulton Lounge.

            “I don’t know what that is.”

            “It’s a swanky little place that is just around the corner.  It’s kind of casual, yet sophisticated, not too crowded and not too noisy, so you can carry on a conversation.”

            “See, there you go again. Your descriptions of things.  I love them.”

            “So do you want to see what kind of casual, yet sophisticated looks like?”

            “Yes. Yes, I want to see that.”

            We got up from the table.  The two blocks to the lounge, we held hands as we walked down the sidewalk.

We commandeered a sleek sofa at the Fulton Lounge.  Surrounded by subtle colors and textures, it’s got the feel of a showroom while being cozy enough to relax in.  We sat there, holding each other’s hands, only breaking our connection to sip the martinis we had ordered.  We continued our conversation, sharing our love of movies, and how brunch with a circle of friends makes Sundays the best day of the week.

            “That night we met, you came on like a force out of nowhere,” the Paralegal said.  “You just showed up, so handsome.  So powerful.”

            My eyes welled up, the words stuck in my throat with fear.

            “Sunshine, I’m going to go out on a limb here.”

            We stared into each other’s eyes.

            “I’m falling in love with you.”

            The Paralegal studied my face, leaned forward, and kissed me on the lips. Noses touching, he said, “I am falling for you, too.”

            It was all that need to be said at that moment to unleash a passion that made us “That couple.”

That couple that needs to get a room.

            * * *

            We had only been on a handful of dates when that awful date of dates came along: Valentine’s Day.  It was too soon for something completely over-the-top, but we were far enough along that the day had to be recognized in some way.

            I decided flowers at the office were in order, so I called my favorite florist and gave the direction: whimsically romantic with a sense of sparkle and wow; no red roses; too cliché.  And they were to arrive on Thursday.  This year, Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday, meaning the flood of office flowers would come on a Friday. I wanted mine to be special.  To stand out.  To set the standard by which all other deliveries would be judged.

            About four o’clock in the afternoon, the string of text messages from the Paralegal started.

            “You might as well have marched right into the law firm naked and delivered them yourself,” he said.  “You brought the entire firm to their knees as your brand of fabulous waltzed right in ad sat down in the middle of the room.”

            “Really?”

            “They called me to the front desk, so I assumed I had some angry client that just showed up.  But when I got there, the receptionist, who is always in a bad mood just smiled and nodded to the most beautiful arrangement sitting on her desk that I have ever seen.”

            The Paralegal held my hand in his.  He has this soft but strong touch that is easy to get wrapped up in.

            “So I had to walk through the firm with this beautiful arrangement, past all these lawyers’ offices, and as I walked deeper into the office, it grew quieter and quieter as conversations came to a stop.  When I got to my desk, I just sat there. I didn’t know what to do; I’ve never had anyone send me anything at the office.  And all the ladies in the office swarmed around my desk.”

            The Paralegal’s eyes welled up as he spoke.

            “Peggy, my office manager had to tell me to unwrap them.  But I was shaking so much, and tears were streaming down my face.  So she had to open them for me.  And all the lawyer ladies, they were yelling to see who they were from.  And I kept saying they were from My Guy, and they were saying, ‘How do you know? Look at the card!’  So I grabbed the card, and I saw it was a haiku, so I knew it was you, but before I could read it they snagged the card from my hands.”

            He opened his wallet and pulled out a card with ink penned perfectly in three lines.

            Feelings are blooming

            A bouquet to spark about

            Sunshine, man I love

            “The lawyer ladies passed the card around, and like lawyer ladies, they examined it, turning it over.  And one of them yells, ‘How do you know it’s from your Guy? There is no name!’  They got all worked up.”

            The Paralegal’s eyes sparkled as he grabbed both my hands.

            “I said, ‘They’re from My Guy. I know. He delivered his brand.’  You brought this stressed-out, busy law firm to a complete halt, and in your own way, you brightened everyone’s day.”

            Mission accomplished.

            * * *

             It was after a night of disco dancing that we were in a cab on the way home. I was still living in the condo with my former partner, it not yet sold, and he had a studio apartment that he wasn’t completely comfortable with sharing. I understood hi anxiety; he’d left everything with his former boyfriend and had nothing but a mattress, a table, a TV, his personal belongings and two cats.

            “Let’s get a room,” I suggested.

            “What do you mean?” He asked.

            “Let’s stay in a hotel tonight. We can sleep in and order room service in the morning.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes. You want to?”

            “Sure.”

            I leaned forward and told the driver to change course to the W Hotel, City Centre, knowing that it would appeal to the Paralegal’s tastes.

            At 1:30 in the morning, we walked up to the front desk, and I booked us a room.

            We were barely in the room before our shoes were off, a string of clothes leading from the door of the room to the sofa.  We tangled on the sofa, our limbs intertwined, him on top of me, as our tongues explored our lips and our mouths.

            “You are so handsome,” the Paralegal said.  He gasped for breath, his asthma sometimes making it hard for him to breathe while we kissed.

            “And you, sir, are beautiful as well.  I love your body.”

            I held him to me, licking his neck.  He giggled.

            “That tickles!”

            “Does it?” I liked him with furry.

            He laughed harder, pushing me down onto the sofa, and me off his neck.  He looked at me and smiled before diving for my lips.  We locked again. I inhaled. He smelled like a man, he was soft yet hard.  As he kissed me, he ground his crotch into me, his masculinity poking against mine.

            “We should open that wine, do you want to?” The Paralegal was referring to the bottle of wine that was in the room.

            “Yes. We should. And then I think we should take a bath. Together.”

            “Yes.”

            We were up. The Paralegal grabbed the wine glasses and the bottle while I searched for the cork screw.  Minibar, nothing.  Desk, nothing.  Drawers, nothing.

            “There is nothing to open it with,” I said.

            “So we can’t have wine?”

            “Hold on.”  I reached for the phone, pushing the “Whatever, Whenever” button.”

            “What can we do for you, sir?”

            “We’re trying to enjoy this bottle of wine that is here in the room.”  I glanced at the Paralegal, who was laughing.  “But we can’t seem to find anything to open with it.”

            “I’m sorry, sir. Sometimes the corkscrews walk off.  I’ll send someone up with one right away.  Is there anything else, sir?”

            “Yes, if you’re sending someone up, could you please have them bring a few condoms as well?”

            The Paralegal burst out laughing, turning bright red.

            “Absolutely, sir.”

            I hung up the phone.

            “Condoms? You asked for condoms?”

            “Sure. The button on the phone says, ‘Whatever. Whenever.’”

            The Paralegal laughed, turning almost purple.

            “Well, I can’t wait.”

            “We better put robes on,” I said.  Went to the closet and barely had them on us when there was a knock at the door.  Corkscrew and condoms. I ran to my wallet and grabbed a five-dollar bill, and when the door was closed, the Paralegal already had the bottle open and was pouring two glasses of wine. He handed me a glass.

            I held mine up, looked into his eyes.

            “To ‘Whatever. Whenever’ buttons,” I said.

            The Paralegal laughed. 

“Yes.”

Our wine glasses clinked.

            “And to us,” I said.

            The Paralegal smiled, his eyes welling up before he leaned forward to kiss me.

            Quickly, we were in the tub, with me leaning into him, his arms and legs wrapped around me.  We sipped our wine.  We bathed each other’s bodies. There was no conversation, just touch, and we could not keep our hands of each other.  Exploring the extent of our bodies with our hands, out tongues, our lips.

            We showered, dried, and then found ourselves on the bed. Me on top of the Paralegal, our hips grinding, our lips locked, him struggling to breath with his asthma.

            “Wait!” he said, stopping everything.

            I rolled off him, leaning on my elbow.

            “I’m not sure how your feel about me?”

            I laughed, burying my head in his chest.

            “Seriously?”

            “I don’t.”

            “You don’t know how you feel about me?”

            “Umm.”

            “I send you flowers to the office. I write you haikus.  And you don’t know how I feel about you?”

            “Well, Umm.”

            “Sunshine, I think you are the bomb. You are creative. You are funny, and witty. Super smart. Killer handsome.  I love that you take care of yourself.  I love that you run for two hours on Saturdays, and that running every day grounds you. I love that you like movies, but more importantly, you want to be the guy who shows the movies.  I love your artistic side, and that you are visual.  You are brave, and strong, and I love all of that.  I love you. Do I need to continue?”

            He laughed.

            “No, you don’t.”

            I licked his earlobe.  He inhaled.

            “I just don’t believe that stuff about myself.”

            “Well you are all that and more, Sunshine, and I’m falling in love with you.”

            “And I, you.”

            Our lips got lost on each other’s bodies before we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sun was beginning to rise.

            * * *

            For the next several months, the Paralegal and I played this game of cat and mouse. The good times were great. Deep and comfortable, he was a joy to be around, and I found myself wanting more. Despite those highs, the Paralegal was developing an unpredictable pattern of vanishing. We’d make plans to cross paths, being in touch all the way up to an hour or two before, only to disappear.  He’d follow up the next day, saying he fell asleep, exhausted from work, or got called into an unexpected meeting.   

One Sunday, after vanishing on me for the weekend.  I had a sudden urge to check out the new Modern Wing at the Art Institute of Chicago.  He chased me down in the Loop via text, and met up with me in a photography gallery not far from the Art Institute.  His deep brown puppy dog eyes were filled with regret, his face with trepidation.

            “Hey,” I said.

            He broke into his beautiful smile, relaxing as he inhaled.  I’m sure relieved that I was not going to explode at him, or beat him.

            “Hi.  How are you?”

            “I’ve just been studying this photo here.”  I nodded to a photo of two black men walking down Chicago’s lakefront, passing a white man and a young white boy, who had been riding their bikes and clearly taken a quick dip in the lake before laying on the breakwater.

            “Yeah?”

            “I think it captures the essence of Chicago perfectly.  Two very different families, or peer groups, existing side-by-side in this beautifully composed shot that was all just circumstantial.  The angles help create a sense of activity, and yet, there is total peace.”

            “I see that.”

            We stood there, examining the photo. Our pinkies brushed up against each other and hooked.  He grabbed my hand, and our fingers interlocked in total forgiveness. We were our own snapshot, a moment of unconditional love, two men existing in the world, side-by-side, trying to let the past go so that we could be present in the moment.

            “Have you ever been through Millennium Park?” I stood close enough to kiss him, staring into his eyes.

            “I run by there all the time, but no, I haven’t.”

            “Then I think we should walk through. I think you will like it.”

            Hand-in-hand, we walked through Millennium Park, where we examined the sculptures that were on display. We stood under the Bean, and snapped photos of each other.  As we walked, he caught me up on his family. His mother had called to say that his unmarried sister is pregnant.  Knowing her devotion to the Christian faith, he said he laughed out loud and suggested that he won’t be the only child in the family going to Hell no.  He said it was another situation where his untimely laughter had got him in trouble.

            “I wouldn’t worry about it, Sunshine. It’s not like she’s going to stop calling you, and besides, you’re right.  As long as she continues to impose her radical Christian ways upon her children, she’s going to continue to see them running off to Hell.”

            “I like that perspective. I think you’re right.”

            For the afternoon, we wandered around the Art Institute.  Our first stop was George Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.  The Paralegal stood in front of the painting for fifteen minutes, taking it in.  He studied the dots, the patterns, and the colors.  He inhaled the details like they were the breath of life.  And as he stood there, I studied him, this work of art, solid yet soft, strong yet fragile, adventurous yet scared, perfect yet flawed.

            “What do you look for in a work of art?” I asked him.

            He turned around, looking at all the walls of the gallery.

            “I like something that speaks to me.  Something that tells a story. I like stories. I like your stories. They would make good artwork.”

            I ran my hand down his back, and leaned into him as he leaned into me.

            We wandered the Art Institute for hours, exploring a special exhibit in Matisse before thoroughly exploring the Modern Wing.  We finally ended up in the elaborately paneled Stock Exchange Trading Room, where we found ourselves in this wide-open room alone.  I pulled him into me and we kissed.

            “I love you.”

            We kissed again.

            We stood on the front steps of the Art Institute and surveyed the city.

            “Shall we go get a glass of wine?” I asked.

            “I’d like that.”

            The Holiday Inn Apparel Mart has one of the most spectacular views of the Loop and the Chicago River.  Situated on the banks of the north and south branch of the river, it looks out from the 15^th Floor over the South Branch and the Loop, as well as toward the lake.  We sat at the bar and ordered a martini.

            I grabbed the watch on his wrist and pulled his arm to me.

            “This is such a handsome watch on you,” I said, admiring its brushed silver finish, and the metallic green face that turns to radiant blue when the light hits it from a different angle. 

            “Thank you. But it doesn’t work. I just wear it for the look.”

            “I think watches on men are so handsome.  I used to collect watches when I was in high school. I was kind of known for my watches and matching them to my outfits. But then after graduating, I couldn’t afford to keep up with the battery replacement, so I eventually got rid of all of them.”

            “I like that story.”

            “Sunshine, I want more days like today.”

            “I do too.  I knew you were going to say that, and I know that I’ve disappointed you.  And I’ve thought about it a lot. While I was running today.  I’ve come to realize that I moved here to get my freedom back, but then I just got this job and all I do is work.  And I came to realize that I’m not really free, I’m just as trapped in my job.  But now I’ve met you, and you are so handsome, and kind, and caring, and I’m finding myself falling for you.  And I like that. I want to spend more time with you.”

            His words made my eyes fill with tears.  I grabbed his hands and held them as he spoke.

            “I need to make changes. I always say yes at the office, and it drains me.  I need to say no, so that I can have time.  Time that I now want to spend with you.  But before you, that time was just me sitting in my apartment, staring out the window, afraid to go out.  But you have helped me to learn that it’s okay.”

            “That’s all nice. But when you disappear on me, it just unravels me. I understand that things come up and you work a lot. I understand that fear can incapacitate you; it sometimes does me.  But right now, I have nothing to go on. I have nothing to believe that when you’re not here that your feelings are the same and true.  And I know that’s my issue, but that’s how I feel.”

            The Paralegal released the clasp on his watch and slid it off his wrist.  He grabbed my hand, sliding the watch over it, clasping it to my wrist.

“I want you to have my watch. I think it looks more handsome on you than it does on me.”

* * *

            The next day I took his watch to a jeweler and got the battery replaced.  I took a picture of it, sending it to his phone.  He replied immediately.

            “You’re wearing it! That makes me so happy.”

            A few minutes later I took another picture and sent it his way, with a message indicating that he will notice the time has changed and it reflects accurate time.

            “You got it fixed?”

            “Yes, I did. While I was out to lunch, ran by a jeweler and got it fixed.”

            “You don’t know how much that means to me that you would do that. Take the time to do that.”

            * * *

             A few days later, when I got off the train, he had had a particularly bad day, and decided to take a break from work. When I got off the train, he met me in a plaza by the river. It was an unusually warm spring evening as we stood there, watching office lights of the loop sparkled off the ripples of the Chicago River.  We stood there, noticing the beauty together, a moment when words don’t need to be exchanged.

             “I want to take this to the next step,” I said.

            “I do, too.”  The Paralegal responded without hesitation and grabbed my hand.  He was an active hand-holder, not just hanging on, but caressing as he intertwined our fingers.

            “I’m not really sure what that means, though.  I do know that I want to spend more time with you, and I’m finding I want to share more of my life with you.”

            “I would like to share more of my life with you, too.  I’m comfortable with you. You help keep my calm, grounded, and I’ve not met anyone as special like that before.”

            “I just enjoy you. Our connection. And I don’t know what the next step is, but if you’re willing, you have my commitment to figure out what that means.”

             “I’d like to figure out what that means. With you.”

             “I’m glad.  We can just take it one day at a time.”

             “I want to spend more time with you.  Do things with you.  Plan things with you. I’m proud to stand by your side.”

            I decided to give him another chance, and offered him to attend a fundraiser with me that I had committed to going to. Enthusiastically, he accepted, saying he would make it happen, that he would be there.

            In the days that followed, he talked about how he was looking forward to our evening, asking what I would be wearing, what the fundraiser was about.  The night before, in a good night text, he said he was looking forward to our plans.

            On the day of, I sent the Paralegal a text message indicating what train I would be on, and that he could meet me at the train station, or I would meet him in the office of his building.

            “Good morning, Handsome,” he replied.  No reference to my question, but I didn’t put a lot of thought into it in that he sometimes fell quiet for plans and still showed up.  But on that night, the plans came and went, no Paralegal. No message.  No acknowledgement. Nothing.

            The depth of my hurt was only masked by the rage that bubbled up.

            * * *

            A few days later, laying in bed on a Friday night thinking about a weekend workshop I had signed up for months earlier, I decided I could, despite my fury, wish the Paralegal well.  I sent him a text, “Good night, Sweet Sunshine.  You are on my mind and in my heart.”

            An hour later, my phone chimed. It was the Paralegal.

            “I’m broken, Handsome. I cannot provide for you the way you need.  I’m very secluded. I’ve hurt you and I am ashamed of myself. I wish nothing but the best for such a bright spirit you are.”

            “Broken or not,” I replied, “I love you. And you are a bright spirit.”

            “I’ll take that with me. I’ll drop the curtain now… I’m entering rehab in the morning.  Family will escort me. But I’ll think of you.  Take care of yourself, Handsome. Gone for now…”

            I fell asleep that night with a tear-stained face, The Paralegal’s watch around my wrist.