I got a cab and hurried home after a call from Adeline.
She was sitting on the couch when I burst into our apartment. Her hands were massaging her swollen ankle.
“Adeline, are you alright?” I panted heavily. I was still trying to catch my breath after racing up seven flights of stairs.
Adeline’s cheeks pinked. There was a soft smile on her lips.
“I’m alright,” she said. “It’s just a sprained ankle.”
I grabbed a bottle of ointment from the fridge and sat down on the couch. Then, relying on the knowledge that I’d learned from medical school, I started massaging Adeline’s swollen ankle.
My heart began to race as soon as my palms touched her skin. The degree of intimacy that we shared had exceeded such an innocuous touch. But those incredulous acts had taken place under the cloak of
