I was waiting for you.  A horse voice croaked from the gaunt looking man.  He looked much older then his age of twenty-three; his body was covered in black marks, as if death himself had touched him in various places leaving its fingerprints at each site.  The mans head held no hair only the unmistakable knots of his previous encounters in life.

Anthony you look well today.  She pushed her naturally husky voice down into her throat forcing it to become deeper.  Shane strutted up to the bed and took her place in a worn hunter green chair, leaning forward she lightly kissed his forehead, and rubbed his head with her hand.  I see that you have been reading.  Picking up the battered copy of Don Quixote she placed it on the bedside table.  Have you been chasing windmills again?

Anthony grinned mischievously.  Alwaysits what we all do in life and today I am living.  He broke out into a harsh cough raising his thin body off the bed with each breath that was forced from his lungs. 

Shane shook her head at his candor; she was use to his matter-of-a-fact statements and took it much better than the nursing staff.  Holding a glass of water she helped him swallow a few drops before carefully placing him back against the pillow.  She turned to set the glass down on the table by the book that the dying soul seemed to love so much.  His eyes were nearly sightless and his mind was not as keen as it was and she knew he could no longer read from the tattered pages, but that wasnt the point.  The young man knew every word by heart and simply longed to run his slender fingers over the pages that had brought him such joy in his short life.

Tell me about the time you took me to Paris.  Anthony grabbed her warm strong hand squeezing it as tight as he could with his pale cold ones.  When was that Jack?  Can you remind me?

Shane swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed her tears back into her eyes.  She hated pretending to be this fragile mans lover, but his partner had died a year ago from the very affliction he was dying of now.  She played the part well thanks to his journal and it seemed to bring the dying man comfort.  Shane shut her eyes and her thoughts drifted to the pages of the journal.  She recalled the passages that the weak hands that held hers had once forcefully written.  Well it was your birthday and I didnt have much money so I had a street artist sketch us in a picture with the Eiffel Tower behind us.  I brought it home wrapped in the days newspaper and when you opened it you smiled at me as if I had brought you to Paris itself.  Do you remember what you said to me?  Shane fell quickly into her character always remembering to have the man participate.