Morpheus and the Fever

The genuises at Stanford don't have the whole picture because I haven't told them. Mostly from shame. He said (twice) we would have coffee together.

 That was mid-December.

 But he was going out of town for work, and wouldn't be back until mid-January.

 Nothing. I've heard nothing. 

 We've known each other for 14.5 years. In all that time, we've never met in public.

 Of course, I fantasized about it. Obsessed over it. Thought about all the things I would say (the things I would cautiously avoid saying). The roles I would play. I couldn't just be myself. No, I had to be someone else, and James was there to coach me. If you're wondering what an auditory hallucination would possibly add to a healthy conversation--lots, I'm telling you. Lots. James knows all those dark, gooey, soft spots in me that I have to keep tucked away. That no one can see. The festering wound that just won't close. Expectation turned to thin hope--and then to disappointment. Like a fever that broke.