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until I find her door, the one with the
little bluebird welcome sign on the front. I give the door a solid knock and rock
back and forth on my feet while I wait. I actually feel nervous. That’s never
happened before, not with Amanda. I really am losing my touch. God I need my
lucky hat.
     “Lee!” she
cries happily as the door swings open, and it really is good to see her face
and that big nervous smile putting dimples in both cheeks. Amanda loves the
flowers. The way she cradles them, you’d think they were made out of gold or
something. Course, that’s before she notices Sir Hopsalot, and then he’s the
center of attention. My sidekick is pretty shameless about the whole cock
blocking thing too. Amanda puts him right down in her lap and strokes his fur,
and he just lets her do it. We’re definitely going to have a conversation about
proper wingman behavior at some point in the near future.
     Amanda’s shy
in person. Doesn’t need to be. She’s put on a little more weight since I saw
her last, but she’s still a pretty girl. At least I think so. Her apartment is exactly
as I left it. Same little TV sitting on the way too big media center, same
hand-me-down coffee table, same faint scent of floral perfume.
     It takes her
an hour to finally ask about my appearance, though she’s been giving me strange
eyes since I got here.
     “Cancer,” I
tell her. “Liver.”
     She actually
gasps, and a look of such horror crosses her face that it makes me
uncomfortable. “Lee, oh no!”
     “It’s okay,”
I tell her quickly, “I’m in remission. Docs are hopeful it won’t be back.
Though nothing is sure.” I tack on that last part, because who knows what could
happen in the field. Maybe I’m in the ground next month, and it’d be better if
Amanda thought cancer got me rather than that I just dropped her like last
night’s trash.
     The cancer
bit works wonders. Sir Hopsalot is left out in the cold, and now I’m the one
getting petted. I close my eyes, feel Mandy’s hands on me, and it’s real nice.
    ***
     Amanda sets
me up on the couch, finds season three of Battlestar Galatica on
Netflix, and prepares dinner. I’m not allowed to do anything. I try, but she
knows I couldn’t peel a carrot if I had a gun to my head, and since I’m a
cancer survivor, you know, I get certain bennies.
     I half watch
the show – seen ‘em all at least three times each – and half watch Amanda. The
girl is amazing, like a conductor at the center of an orchestra. Three pans sizzle
on the stove while she mixes something in a bowl and sets it down to chop up
vegetables and sprinkle spices onto a big slab of meat. She doesn’t use the
microwave, not once.
     By the time dinner
is ready, I’ve got a serious case of drool going on. The whole little apartment
smells like the kitchen of a five star restaurant, or at least what I think a
five star restaurant would smell like.  Mandy brings me over to this tiny table
stuffed in the corner of the kitchen where plates and silverware wait for us.
My lilies cluster together in a glass in the center of the table, between a
pair of mismatched candles. She’s even set out wine glasses.
     I wish she
weren’t so nervous though, thinking everything is over cooked or under cooked
or there is a little too much ginger in this or that. I have to keep assuring
her everything is fine, but it’s hard, because I’m stuffing my face like a
maniac. I’m sure it’s delicious, but chewing isn’t so much in my plans.
     I think I
gross Amanda out a little bit.
     “Cancer,” I
mumble through the food, and she breaks out the sad eyes and nods
understandably. Bless cancer.
     We watch two
more episodes of Battlestar Galactica . Amanda leans into me, murmuring
how cool it is that my name is Lee, just like the brave, suave, muscled CAG on
the show. Ironic indeed.
     We go to the
bedroom after that. Course I have to run right back out again, because I forgot
the whipped cream in the truck. When I