"You said one thing wrong."
"In Phoenix City, I am that power."
When the surgery lamp came on, the disinfectant smell made me blank out for a breath.
Right then, I clearly pictured Luther at eighteen.
He always chose the front seat, back straight.
The neckline of his shirt was bleached pale, threads sticking out fine.
Once, he burned with fever and skipped class for three days. When I found him, he was hauling cement at a building site.
I slipped five thousand dollars into his backpack.
He chased behind me across three streets to return it, voice rough. "Classmate, Vera, please leave me some dignity.”
After that, I just "accidentally" carried extra breakfast, and "casually" loaned him review notes.
During the Winter Solstice evening, he held two baked sweet potatoes, stood out in minus ten degrees until dormitory lights-out, and once he saw me, the first line he spoke was, "Vera, can you wait for me?"
Years later, he rose from nothing until his company got listed.
He held me close the entire night, voice tight.
"In those times, I slept only three hours each day, scared I couldn’t stay beside you, scared you’d notice I needed a whole week just to manage one cup of coffee with you."