It’s interesting how familiar things cease to seem beautiful, not because they’ve changed in any way, but just because we’ve gotten used to them - come to expect them to always be the way that they are - and that’s comforting, but not spectacular.

The weather is better than it has been for several days - cool enough to feel refreshing, but not biting. It’s a two-hour walk to the hospital. 

I actually went to bed on time last night and had something other than chai tea for breakfast. Still, I’m already tired, hungry, and hot, wishing I could turn back and go home. Somewhere deep in my ‘suggested’ are barely interesting videos just begging to help me waste my weekend, but I pull my jacket tight against the thought and remind myself that I need the exercise.

It’s not as bad as it could be since it’s December, but I’m sweating inside my coat, and I shudder to imagine the horrible pit stains I’m going to have when I take it off at the hospital.

I have yet to send Kattar anything beautiful today, so I keep my eyes peeled as I turn the corner onto the main road. The smell of fuel exhaust gives me an immediate headache, and I debate whether I should start breathing through my mouth. I tend to get extremely carsick, not just when I’m in a car, but anytime I’m on highways or busy streets, breathing the fumes, which is probably why I took so long to learn how to drive. 

I was 25 when Kattar finally put his foot down and insisted I get my license.

“Not that I mind escorting you to every single place under the sun that’s more than 10 miles away from your house any given day of the week, but you need to be able to get around independently when I can’t drive you.”

Everything has always been about independence with him. 

He’s one of those crazy people who likes taking road trips alone, flying to a foreign country, and spending a week or a month somewhere completely removed from anyone and everything familiar - daring fate to do its worst.

As much as he loves his mom, he couldn’t leave the house fast enough when he turned 18. He immediately got a day job and an apartment in the other part of the city - close enough to see Mrs. Moon virtually every day, but far enough to feel totally and completely ‘his own person,’ living his own life.

If I had his mother, I think I would have been content to be her person - her personal charge and worry - living a life where I knew there was someone looking out for me, making sure I was breathing okay, late nights, when that was harder than it should’ve been.

Across from a furniture store with big, wirework reindeer in the window, a different florist advertises fresh flowers and Christmas trees, but I want to find something that I haven’t done already. Two shops down there’s a chocolatier I kept promising I WOULDN’T visit, lest I gain twenty pounds I definitely don’t need. Today I opt out of being sensible and cross the street - taking a peek through the window.

The inside of the shop shimmers in glossy shades of white and brown, and caramelly decadent gold. Bonbons and fudge are organized inside the glass case and between them, marzipan and fondant in unnatural shades and shapes of rose and tangled ivy make pretty additions - though I learned a long time ago that they look a lot better than they taste.

In the farthest case, they’re getting ready for Christmas. Angels and stars, even a manger with baby Jesus and the Virgin by his side - all made of tempered chocolate - are on display, but more expensive than anyone in their right mind could justify paying for.

The angel is my favorite. Some of the other pieces are lackluster, but I can feel the passion breathing through the detail of each feather on the angel's wings, the folds of its robe, and the luxurious texture of its harp.

I pull my phone out and snap a picture, immediately texting it to Kattar with the message “Something beautiful,” then turning to the case, I decided to ask how much it would cost for a box of bonbons.

The woman behind the counter has a comfortable, welcoming smile. She calls me 'darling' with a southern accent that catches me off guard, considering the amount of words written in French around the shop.

“30 dollars for the basic box of 12, the others vary.”

I would have whistled if I knew how, and I seriously debate whether it’s worth it to spend so much. My grandmother would have said no. 

Still, it’s not every day. I allow myself to buckle down. I want to spoil myself, and Kattar, a little bit. 

I select their “Sweetheart Box,” 12 artisan bonbons, with fillings like orange marmalade and peanut butter nougat, and paying the outrageous 42 dollars, slide the box into my messenger bag and slip back out onto the sidewalk.

The instant I arrive in the hospital lobby I take my jacket off and fold it over my lap, giving the pits of my blouse a moment to dry as I wait to be able to speak to the receptionist. A heavy-set woman with a messy nest of weave all tumbled together on the top of her head is speaking intensely - frantically - to the poor gray-haired woman behind the desk. I try not to eavesdrop but stray words slip into my perception here and there -

Only family. So sorry. Maybe. Phone call. So sorry. And sorry again.

I bite my lip.

“Is Alicia Palmero on the visitor's list for Kattar Moon?” I ask the woman behind the desk, the second the big woman sweeps away, crying and muttering at the same time.

“Of course,” she smiles, exhaustedly. “You’re always on the visitor’s list.”

I’m taken aback, but before I can say anything she adds:

“He should be being brought back to his room about now, so he might be asleep, or trying to sleep, but Lucille can take you to his room.”

I know my way, but the rainbow-scrubbed ‘Lucille’ leads me around a nearby corner and three doors down to a room where the door is standing open.

He isn’t sleeping. 

When we arrive two male nurses are helping him from a wheelchair into the bed. His face is twisted into something between a grimace and wince, and red as fire, as he tries not to cry out with pain, but when he sees me, he smiles in spite of himself, almost sheepishly.

I hesitate on the threshold, unsure whether to come in or to turn back and wait in the lobby until a better time. He needs his sleep. I shouldn’t be here-

“So this is the beauty everyone’s been telling me about,” one of the nurses says, a tall man with surfer-blonde hair. “I can’t lie. I’m kind of jealous. Are you a model, Miss?”

“No,” I say quickly - sharply, though I don’t mean to.

“You two a couple?” The other nurse asks, adjusting the position of the bed, as Kattar shakes his head.

“That’s too bad,” the blonde nurse throws in, in a mock-pity way that makes it clear that he doesn’t mean it. As they leave he winks at me.

My heart somersaults as the door closes.

I feel stranded, tongue-tied, holding onto my purse with a death grip.

“I brought chocolate,” I suddenly remember, handing him the little circlet containing all the details on the 'Sweetheart Box.' “Did you see the chocolate angel?”

“I did. It was nice. Really detailed.” He says it all quickly. The words clipped. He’s still in pain, breathing shallowly to try to mitigate the suffering. 

I want to look at the floor, but I don’t, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“Are you going to paint it?”

“Probably not,” I move to take a seat by the window and push the curtains back, letting the light in. The sun is around on this part of the building, and backlights me, making my loose strands of hair glow. He sits up a little straighter, following me with his eyes.

“Too bad,” a slight wince - he can’t suppress this time, as he shifts on the mattress so that he’s more or less facing me. He smiles to mask it, his eyes disappearing into half-moons.

“I told some of the nurses about your paintings. One of them wants to get a few of your prints for her living room, and she asked if I could get you to sign them - but I told her” he stops, almost breathless, “-said I couldn’t do that. Signed copies will be worth a lot when you’re big and famous. We can’t be giving those away for free.”

He smiles, but it’s not his usual, playful smile. I realize he’s serious.

“Can we try those chocolates now?” He asks abruptly, pushing his hair back, “I haven’t had anything but cafeteria food in ages and I’m dying for something that doesn’t taste like boxed pudding and gelatine.”

I hurry to get the box out of my bag and undo the ribbon. Something, maybe a slight movement, maybe a change in his breathing makes me hesitate for a second. I don’t look up, but I become aware that he’s watching me, feel his dark eyes tracing my motions as I remove the velveteen lid with some effort.

At the edge of my peripheral, I can see his expression - too, intent - I try to pretend I don’t, making a show of selecting a bonbon with two fingers, unreasonably embarrassed. My face flashes red and white like a siren.

I’ve taken one bite when Kattar scares me half to death - saying suddenly - “Wait! Is that the goober nougat?! I want that one!”

“I already took a bite out of it,” I stammer, somewhere between annoyed and disconcerted.

“Don’t care.”

I surrender the half-eaten bonbon but feel the need to add, as a last, exasperated complaint “It’s just a glorified peanut butter cup.”

Kattar smiles impishly, self-satisfied, a brilliant flush blooming in his cheeks as he pops the bonbon into his mouth, watching my face the whole time.

I shake my head and select another, rolling it over at my fingertips. I lock eyes with him. That same expression. I try to meet his gaze - ask nonchalantly, jokingly:

“Am I allowed to eat this one?

He smiles his roguish grin, and any attempt at maintaining my heart rate evaporates.

His eyes flash, taunting me,

“We’ll see.”