60. Never On The Street
Never On The Street
Rafe keeps his promise, he calls from every stop he can.
Dublin, Manchester, Glasgow, the rhythm of cities falling into his voice.
Sometimes I hear the crowd behind him, a low roar fading out as he ducks into a hallway.
Other nights it’s just his voice in a dark hotel room, soft and sleepy, but still smiling when he says my name.
Missing him feels like something sacred, somehow.
A vigil my heart keeps. The days keep moving.
Copenhagen. Stockholm. Munich. Madrid. Each city, another call, another photo, another reason to count down.
Somewhere between the miles, merely the sound of him starts to feel like home.When he reaches Warsaw, I can’t stop grinning.
“Okay,” I tell him, pacing the kitchen, phone in hand.
“You have to get Wedel chocolate, dark, the blue wrapper. And krowki, the caramel ones. They travel well, so no excuses. And pierniki, the gingerbread from Toruń if you can find them. You’re bringing some back for me, Piotr, and Tata, or you’re not getting through the door, Ashton. ”
He laughs, breath fogging in the Polish cold. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be smuggling half the country home.”
He walks through the streets with me on a video call. I watch the wet cobblestones gleam, neon signs reflected in puddles.
“Do you hear it?” I ask. “Even on the busiest nights, there’s no chatter outside. Only cars and footsteps. People talk indoors. Never on the street.”
He tilts his head, listening. “That’s wild. I never noticed that before. Why?”
“Because Polish people don’t tell their business in public.”
He laughs so hard it echoes through the phone, and I can almost feel the sound in my chest. After he regains his composure he whispers into the phone, just for me.
"Fuck, do you even know how much I miss you? How badly I just want to see your face without a screen between us?" He sighs. “Five more shows,” he says almost like it's a prison sentence.
“Five more shows,” I repeat, like a promise.
Back at his hotel, with all the chocolate in Poland in his possession, Rafe asked for a little return for his financial investment.
One favor for another, he teased. Then he asked me to turn my phone's camera… on me, in a very different way than before. It felt like crossing a line I hadn’t even realized we’d drawn, as if we both suddenly remembered this technology existed and could be used like this.
We laughed about how stupid it was that we hadn’t done it before.
He said his mind wouldn’t leave him alone until he saw me, all of me, again.
The hours after blurred into something else entirely: laughter, flushed skin, the kind of discovery that makes time irrelevant.
Every second of it is still under my skin.
Now, sitting at my desk finishing a chart, the thought of it makes my face warm.
The sound of his voice saying my name, that growl, that promise travels through me, quick and bright.
I cross my legs, press my palms to my thighs, and force myself to focus on the page.
It’s useless, really. My body still remembers the way he looked at me through the screen, like he was trying to touch me through sight alone.
I can't push it out of my mind. How he stroked himself with fire in his eyes, dark hair shaking with his release.
The way I said his name when it happened, like he was right there, like I could feel everything he wanted to do.
I swallow, the room suddenly feels warmer, my chest heaving at the memory alone.
No, there's no working today only pretending.
By early afternoon, I’m halfway through my charts when the tech pokes her head into my office.
“Your next one’s… interesting,” she says, lowering her voice. “Friendly enough, but her visual acuity’s all over the place. Like, one second she’s 20/20, the next she can’t see the chart. Periphery’s inconsistent too. I think she’s faking.”
I smile. “We’ll see.”
The patient is waiting in the chair when I walk in, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture perfect. Mid-forties, bright eyes, a kind of forced calmness. She greets me with too much enthusiasm.
“Dr. Sawadzka! So good to meet you. I’ve heard you’re the best.”
“Thank you,” I say, sitting down across from her. “Mrs. Filmer, let’s take a look and see what’s going on.”
I run the exam as usual, check pressures, examine the fundus. Everything looks pristine. Retinas clear, optic nerves perfect, vessels healthy.
“Everything looks great from a retinal perspective,” I say, lowering the scope. “But let’s go over your symptoms again. You mentioned flashes?”
She nods quickly. “Yes. Sometimes flashes, sometimes… weird things. Shapes, movements. Like someone’s walking up behind me.”
“That can definitely feel unnerving,” I say gently. “Do you notice any shadows, veils or curtains over your vision?”
Her expression changes slightly. “Veils,” she repeats. “Yes, sometimes I see veils. But they aren’t always visible.”
I pause for half a second, trying to parse the odd phrasing. “Alright. Just keep an eye on things. If anything changes or worsens, you let me know immediately.”
She nods. “Of course.”
I extend my hand. “It was nice meeting you.”
Her grip is firm, eyes studying my face in a way that lingers a little too long. Then she tilts her head and says, almost cheerfully, “You’ve been thorough.” She looks me up and down, then sighs. “But those shoes? Your hair? I expected a little better from you. A doctor, I mean. ”
I blink, exhale through my nose. I’ve heard worse. Every doctor has, the insult woven into a compliment, the way some patients like to test your composure or have zero social skills.
“Perhaps it’s time I look into a few new things… but thank you,” I say, a professional smile intact. “Take care of yourself.”