Feverish
Susan can see that Madge's attention is drifting, but she babbles on, trying not to notice that Madge's eyes are closing, that she's slowly disappearing.
Some story about Tad and Paul. Some school story, some- anything. Susan can't remember what she was saying the moment before. Her voice stumbles, and she's biting her lip to keep from crying.
"Susan." Madge's eyes are closed, like she can only manage to look or to talk, not both. Because she's not looking, Susan allows a single tear to spill.
"Susan?"
"Yes." Abruptly, her voice overlapping Madge's. She grabs her hand "Yes. I'm still here."
Her hand is feverishly hot under Susan's. Susan holds her palm against the metal bedhead and then smooths it over the back of Madge's hand. The times she's done that- run cool, smooth hands up Madge's body, tracing her outline, forming her. She wants to climb into the bed and draw the heat to herself. Again, she cools her hand on the metal rail, and leans forward, tracing her palm down the side of Madge's face.
She can feel her relaxing under her fingers. Her eyes are still closed, but she murmurs something. Susan can't hear. She leans forward until her hair falls onto Madge's shoulders.
"What did you say?"
Madge's breath is hot on her ear, her lips almost touching Susan's earlobe.
"You can do that some more."
Susan sits back in the sticky plastic hospital chair. Madge is smiling- it's a shadow of the wicked, lusty smile Susan remembers so well, but it's there.
Susan takes her left hand from under Madge's on the covers, and leans over her to hold both palms against the bedhead. Her breast touches Madge's cheek, and she can feel her breath through the thin fabric of her shirt. She freezes there, as if in that moment, it's possible that this is one of those shady summer-indoors days that, these days, aren't supposed to have happened. As if, any moment, Madge's hands are going to lift from the bed and slide under her shirt, pull her down on top of her, the hot breath circling her nipple, right before the teeth...
She sits down abruptly on the side of the bed, and lays her cool hands against each of Madge's cheeks. Slides her palms down, one behind her neck, the other to lie in the gap above the first button of her pyjama top. The heel of Susan's hand rests where it would have met Madge's cleavage, if she hadn't been lying on her back in a hospital bed, breasts slid out sideways under her keeping-up- appearances silk pyjamas.
Susan wants to reach under the perfect, sweaty ivory of the silk and cup Madge's breasts in her hands, lower her face to cool her fever with her breath. Take comfort where she can. But she doesn't.
"Susan?"
She turns her head to watch Madge's reaction.
"Is this OK?" She pulls back the covers a little, pulls the damp fabric of the pyjama top away from Madge's skin. Reaches her fingers into the jug of water by the bed and brushes a few drops of water onto the tiny island of skin between the first and second buttons. "I don't want to hurt you."
Madge's eyes snap open, and for the first time in days, there is a little of the old husky steel in her voice.
"Too late for that."