Face Of The Monster

***8***

Phoebe Kim should not be here and she knows it.

Her desk is a disaster, papers everywhere. She spilled coffee about an hour ago and keeps finding missed droplets on the mahogany. Her makeup is smeared -- she's been sweating all day. An open bag of cough drops protrudes from the bottom drawer of her desk. There is a blanket draped over the back of her chair that she has been putting on and taking off obsessively all day between her hot and cold flashes.

Phoebe Kim should not be here, but she will not go home. She is sick and cold and miserable, but she has appointments to keep. It's five thirty, now. She has three more appointments before she can go home.

She's waiting for Chloe's customary on-my-way-home call. Chloe is just working at the restaurant tonight. Her shift is usually over by four. She decides she ought to call Chloe herself.

The phone rings for quite awhile. Phoebe leans back in her chair, reaching for another cough drop. Her sinuses are so clogged that she can't breathe through her nose. She decides that after she talks to Chloe, she'll ask Lars to run out and get her some tea.

Finally, the ringing stops. "Hello?" Chloe's voice carries the reverberation of an unfamiliar space.

"Hi," Phoebe says. She unwraps the cough drop. "Just wanted to check in on you."

"Oh. Yeah. I'm fine. Why?"

"I dunno. You usually call on your way home, don't you?" she asks. "Are you home already?"

Chloe lets out a little laugh. Phoebe thinks she knows that laugh; it's a nervous titter, one she uses when stalling for time. Or, that's what she thinks it is. She reminds herself not to jump to conclusions. Chloe says, "I'm not home yet. Melissa's sick, so I'm taking an extra shift. Doesn't start for another few minutes, though. I'm free to talk."

It seems awfully quiet for the restaurant, but Phoebe doesn't voice this. "Okay," she says. "How was your day?"

"Fine," Chloe answers. "You know that old guy I was telling you about, the one who keeps talking about his old whaling boat? He grabbed my ass this morning."

Phoebe frowns at the phone. Isn't that an interesting story? "What did you say?"

Chloe laughs again. "Nothing. He's so old, Fee. His face looks like a walnut shell."

"Well, next time something like that happens, you ought to tell whoever it is to get their hands off of you. I don't care how old he is. That's still sexual assault."

"Honey, you still sound a little congested."

No kidding, Phoebe thinks. "I know." She pops the cough drop into her mouth. "Quiet day at the restaurant, huh?"

"Oh, I uh, no," Chloe says. "I'm at the coffee shop down the road until my shift starts. It's pretty quiet around here, yeah. So, I don't think I'll be home for dinner. I might not get back until nine, depending on traffic."

"Okay. Wake me up if I'm asleep when you get back."

"I will."

"Good. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye." Chloe makes a smooch noise and hangs up, leaving Phoebe feeling alone and colder than before.

Their "I love you"s have started sounding different to Phoebe. They seem less like small truths now and more like questions. I love you? Love you too?

Phoebe hears the door open. Lars greets the person, saying, "I don't think there's anyone in there. Just knock, first."

Phoebe throws her phone down, flinging herself into action. She dries her sweating forehead on a napkin and spits out her cough drop. She ransacks her second drawer for a hair tie and stuffs her hair into a hasty ponytail. She knows she looks like a wreck, but she also knows that Emma won't mind. When the expected knock comes, Phoebe says, "Come in!"

Emma looks nice today. Her hair is twisted into an elaborate conglomeration of braids. Her makeup is still done, but her eyes are red. Whether from lack of sleep or from crying, Phoebe can't tell. Emma smiles at her. "Hey. Sorry, I should have called, but--"

"No, no." Phoebe motions toward Emma's chair and the other woman sits. Her hot flash turns cold. Pulling her blanket up around her bare shoulders, she tells Emma, "It's always nice to see you." She looks away, brushing a dirty tissue off her desk and into the bin. She feels a little too exposed.

"Well, thanks," says Emma. "It's always good to see you, too. I was wondering, though. I come to see you so often, maybe we should work out a price?"

Phoebe shakes her head fervently. "Don't worry about it," she says.

"I just . . . I feel guilty about it. Like I'm taking advantage of you."

"Don't feel guilty," Phoebe insists. "Think of these as just friendly visits, not consultations. I enjoy seeing you, you enjoy seeing me, so we talk to each other sometimes. Nothing you need to pay me for." What she wants to say is, don't stop coming here. I need you more than you need me.

Emma smiles a little. "I appreciate that." She looks Phoebe over. "So, as your friend, can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can." Phoebe feels a little itching in her heart, a signal telling her that something has changed. It's a good change. She doesn't have to be the doctor and Emma doesn't have to be the patient. They've moved on to the next stage of their relationship.

"It's kind of personal."

"Go on."

Emma clears her throat. "Do you . . . do you have anyone to take care of you when you get sick?"

Phoebe stops breathing for a moment, thinking. Her chills have turned into shivers. What exactly does Emma want to know? If she has a significant other? If she has children? If she is awfully, horribly lonely and empty and can't escape the hollowness of her own relationships no matter where she goes?

"You don't have to answer," Emma says quickly. "I was just wondering."

"No, it's alright." Phoebe looks down at her deck, noticing yet another droplet of spilled coffee hiding under her keyboard. "I suppose I do, to answer your question. I live with--" Phoebe makes a split second decision to tell the truth "-- my girlfriend. She'd take care of me if I got really sick. This, though?" Phoebe gestures toward her own decayed state. "This is nothing serious."

Emma nods. "Good. I'm glad you have someone."

Phoebe offers a bemused smile. "What, did you think I didn't?"

"No, nothing like that!" Emma insists. "It's just . . . you seem like you're at the top of the food chain, you know? Your job, your career, is just taking care of people who take care of other people and so on, right? I was just thinking, you know, who takes care of you? But I'm glad you have someone. I'm glad someone's taking care of you."

Phoebe feels a pang in the shadows of her stomach. She thinks of last night, Chloe coming home and chattering about her day while she cooked dinner, only asking one fleeting, "how are you feeling?" that she didn't allow Phoebe to answer before she moved on to the next topic of her monologue. She thinks of Chloe tossing and turning elaborately in bed until Phoebe finally asked what was wrong and Chloe answered that should couldn't sleep with her bedmate breathing so laboriously. She thinks of herself dragging her blanket downstairs and finally falling asleep hours later on the couch. She thinks of waking up with her hips aching and going upstairs to pull on her clothes and put on her makeup, ready to face another day alone.

She smiles at Emma. "I'm glad, too."