COMFORT IN THE COLD   COMFORT IN THE COLD by Renny Ramos  The Poem:  
You turn to me like a frightened child.  I hold you in my arms to soothe
your grief.  You cling to me as if I held your life in my hands.  And in
that moment -  we forget who we are.  The last gasp of pleasure finally
dies away and we lie against each other.  In our emptiness, our only
escape	was comfort in the cold.  - The End -	=================== The
Story:	"I don't think you'd want to go in there."  I led Ray away from
the door, the only barrier to the complete outpouring of madness. Outside,
a mob of journalists waited, hungry for new prey. I drew out my arm and
gently turned him away from the door. He won't be made part of this
circus, I'd see to that. I'd kill all of them first.  Ray blindly followed
my motions, and pretty soon we were seated in a quiet corner outside the
hospital's operating room. I watched him silently. What was there to say?
The woman he loved was dead.  I listened intently as he spoke about Irene.
He had so many wonderful stories, such as the one when he first asked her
to dance and she kept trying to lead. I think that, somehow, he believed
that recounting the beauty of their past would save him from the dark
insanity of what happened. So I drank in his memories, what else was there
to do? I sat and listened. I watched him, until seeing his face all broken
up in pain forced me to look away.  The last words I heard from him were
not about her, but a plea for escape. "I don't think I can face Ma and
Frannie - not now. Please ... can I stay over at your place tonight?"  We
escaped through the hospital's backdoor. I called Mrs. Vecchio from a pay
phone located outside the building to relay the message that Ray would be
spending the night over at my apartment. I then hailed a cab that would
take us home. Ray was silent throughout the trip. Once in a while, I'd
steal a glance and see his face, all grim and expressionless. But I knew.
The truth gave itself in those eyes, those twin pools of grief.   At home,
conversation was brief; limited only to basic, polite queries between host
and guest. Would you like anything to eat or drink? Are you comfortable?
Anything I can help you out with? With each question I posed, I received
few, dazed mutterings of thanks. No, thank you. You don't have to. I'll be
fine.  Nothing was fine.  He showered and put on the clothes I had lent
him, clothes I had already outgrown. He lay down on my bed, and in a few
minutes seemed to drift off to sleep. I took my place on the other side of
the bed and looked at him, relieved that sleep had claimed him so quickly.
A few hours to escape the pain, at least.  But it was too much to hope
for. I had barely settled into sleep myself, when his cries ripped through
the darkness. "Oh, God," he cried, bringing his hands up to cover his
face. I drew him close to me. Before I knew it, I had cradled his head to
my chest, my words of attempted comfort barely forming in my mouth as my
sadness joined his.  He swam through sorrow in my arms, for what seemed to
be forever. But his despair gave way, at last. His grip on my shirt
relaxed, and his breathing resumed its normal pace.  The fist on my shirt
unrolled and transformed itself into a gentle touch against my collarbone.
Almost involuntarily, I lifted one hand and let my fingers cup themselves
around his face. I felt his body shift, and I soon felt the warm breath
pass through his lips onto my neck.  It was strange. There was no fear, no
panic. Just a dim awareness of the activity. I looked at him and wondered.
Perhaps he was just clutching at a dream; his eyes were closed as he
pressed his lips gently against my mouth. Or perhaps he was searching for
a drug within me, something to dull his unhappiness.   That night, we
pretended and tried to forget, tried to escape our hellish world. For a
time, it seemed as if we would succeed. Naked against each other, we used
our bodies to fill the emptiness that dwelt within us.	 The last gasp of
pleasure died away at last, and I opened my eyes to look at him. Nothing
had changed.   He rolled away from me and turned his face to the wall.
Even in the darkness, I saw the silent cries rip through his body like a
lance.	We had failed.	  The End -  Before the blackbird, Before the
trouble of traffic and the mist unrolled, I shall remember at the dark
hour turning to you For comfort in the cold."	Paul Dehn, "At the Dark
Hour"    E-mail the author: Blue_Grey_Eyes@hotmail.com